Everybody Falls
by smash interrupted
Summary: It's that time of year again, where everybody's getting sick. Except Price isn't sick, no matter what Soap says... Fluff. MW-AU. Domestic.
1. Chapter 1

**Everybody Falls**  
Chapter One

* * *

'… Would you stop being such a stubborn bastard and take a pill already?' Soap says, the words catching the tail end of his long-suffering sigh. It's a rhetorical question – for no other reason than he knew the man next to him.

In the passenger seat, Price grunts around the cigar in his mouth – its spiced smoke wafting through the vehicle.

'Never took you for a wet nurse, Soap.'

'Well I don't go around bloody broadcasting it, old man,' Soap says, taking one hand off the wheel and rolling down a window. He doesn't usually mind having someone toking next to him, but right now it's suffocating - even if the taste as he breathes it in is a right sight better than his usual. Menthols. The look of disgust Price gives him every time he lights up is one for the books. 'Christ knows who I'd have trying to suckle on my misty peaks.'

Price inhales far too sharply, quickly falling into a minor coughing fit. Soap grins just a little, fingers flicking on the indicator.

 _Tick, tick, tick, tick._ They're at an intersection. Cars flit passed on his left, pushing the limit. Before he can be growled at for not making room for himself, Soap reaches into the back from between the two front seats, rummaging for his water bottle.

'Here,' he says, striking gold after a few moments, around the same time that a gap suddenly appears. Trying to accomplish two very different things at once, Soap thrusts the bottle a little too roughly in Price's direction and presses the accelerator, bunny-hopping them into the road. 'Don't get anything on my upholstery.'

'Your _upholstery_ ,' Price repeats, managing to sound deadpan despite having just been seconds away from hacking up a lung. A quick glance back at his OC as Soap wins his game of chicken with oncoming traffic, and he can see why. Price is leaning sideways, shoulder pressed against the door – having slid seamlessly out of the way of Soap's offering, which he was still holding against the seat. Around the right height to have smacked his Captain in the jaw. 'Where the bloody hell did you get your license, eh? A cereal box?'

'A pretty lass with a smile, actually.'

'Hm.'

There's a beat of silence – another cough, this one a touch more chesty than the last. Price wrests the water from Soap's grip, the old man precariously balancing his newly lit Villa Clara on the side. Soap watches the ashen end in his peripherals, knowing how this scenario was going to end.

'Put that out, would you?'

Price looks at Soap like he's something to be scraped off the bottom of his shoe. Soap sighs heavily again, resisting the urge to groan.

'… It's smoldering, old man.'

A derisive snort. 'Is the Earth round?'

'You know us Christ lovers - we're convinced it's flat.' Soap says, switching gears with a horrible grinding sound. Price's exasperated roll of the eyes is cut short as he winces, mouth pressing into a thin, disapproving line.

Mercifully, he doesn't utter a word.

A heartbeat later, the cigar disappears, too.

Soap knows better than to thank him, instead letting them both fall into a comfortable silence. He thumbs the radio absently, hearing static. Pop music. Classical. A sport's commentator, talking a mile a minute with nothing interesting to say. Price finally pops the cap and starts drinking beside him, finding it difficult as the water hits the back of his throat. More coughing, and Price makes a fist, trying to smother the noise.

Honest to God, Soap wishes the bastard would forsake his pride just this once and take his bloody medicine.

It's twenty degrees out and the old man is bundled up in a coat so thick you'd think he was born in the bloody Sahara – his skin flushed with heat, but his body clearly having a crisis of temperature. Even now, after regaining his composure, he's rolling his window back up. Like the soft breeze drifting through is blasting him with murderous, icy intent.

On the opposite side of him, Soap is practically sweltering in his Henley shirt – sleeves rolled up in an attempt to keep cool, the logical part of him wondering why the hell he hadn't glanced outside before getting dressed that morning.

And yet, despite it all, his OC sits there like a pumpkin, teeth grit, the odd tremor wracking his body, professing that he's fine. Soap wonders what it is about Price admitting he's under the weather that makes the old man act like everyone and their dog is trying to get a murder confession out of him.

Ahead, the familiar letter box emblazoned with a '46', comes into view, and Soap slowly eases onto the brake. The car slows – turns. As it stops in front of Price's closed garage, Soap keeps the engine running. Normally, he'd follow Price in, but he has somewhere else to be – Wallcroft's barbeque having gone on a lot longer than anyone had expected. Time slipping away in the presence of people that could hold a decent conversation – a side-effect of being constantly deployed. Nobody back home ever knew what to say when you eventually limped back into their lives.

Soap shifts in his seat as Price opens the passenger door, deciding that he might as well push one more button before he goes. 'Hey, Price…'

Price pauses with one leg out of the car, looking at him – an eyebrow arching expectantly.

 _Speak now or forever hold your peace._

'… Mind tossing that over, aye?'

He points to the bottle, reaching out as he waits for Price to pass it to him – gaze dark as he watches the old man, _knowing_ that it's not going to happen. For a long, long time, Price says nothing, mouth twisting into an unhappy frown.

His OC doesn't like being called out.

'… You don't want what I've got, Soap.'

There's a brief moment where he considers pushing the envelope with an 'aha!' moment, but it vanishes as he meets Price's eyes, his own expression schooling neutral. The concern for his wellbeing would do, he decides, rescinding his hand.

'Probably not,' he agrees.

Price takes that as a cue that they're done, getting out of the car. He's about to close the door, when Soap leans over again.

'Good for Thursday?'

Thursday, Price finally gets his own car out of the shop, though he still needed someone to taxi him up to the mechanic. On the driveway, Price nods once.

'Be here by three.'

'… I'm dragging your arse to the doctor if you still look like shite by then, old man.'

There's a moment of silence. Then the door snaps shut in his face.

Soap shakes his head, torn between amusement and annoyance as Price walks away like he isn't a royal wanker, climbing the steps to his porch. '… And he calls me a bloody muppet.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Everybody Falls**  
Chapter Two

* * *

Price is stubborn, not stupid.

In a career dedicated to protecting Queen and country, physical health is absolutely paramount. It's basic common sense, rather than a revelation born out of experience, and so the first thing Price does as he shoulders through his own front door is head straight for the Benylin tablets. He cracks two between his teeth, grimacing at the taste.

 _(Soap will never, ever have the satisfaction of knowing that Price - aching, wheezing and with a sinus headache that's close to making his eyes water - has actually listened to him)._

'Christ...' Price mutters, hoarse and sore, hovering by the sink. There's a glass in the dish rack that will take only a minute to fill, but he decides against washing it all down in favour of slowly, surely, taking his arse to bed.

It's 4:05pm in the afternoon.

That should have been his first warning.

.

.

.

It's less than a day later that Soap gets a call. On his work phone, no less – the Blackberry exploding with the default store jingle.

He's listening to Queen at the time, hard rock drumming in his ears, courtesy of two little white buds connected to the device lying on his chest. The playlist had been made for him by a cousin who'd flatly googled _music from the 1970s_ – which was, coincidentally, over a decade _before_ he was born – but Soap didn't mind. He could appreciate the classics, and when he was draped over a bench press lifting twenty-eight and a half kilograms, he'd found that the music playing wasn't all that important, so long as it _was_ playing.

Which it was, for a good few minutes until the famous _Bohemian Rhapsody_ was interrupted by the sharp, staccato ringtone.

' _Shite…'_

Soap is on his eighteenth repetition, sweat beading on his brow and arms starting to strain under the weight. The noise makes him flinch – the muscle contraction making the barbell drop precariously towards his face. Grunting in both alarm and effort, Soap digs in and forces the bar back up, reseating it in the safety holder.

The SAS private lets out a breath he'd been holding – body going limp to juxtapose the tense, hard lines it'd been moments before when he'd pumped iron. His head lolls to the side, eyes briefly flicking shut as he collects himself, the near miss fading from his mind.

Picking up his Blackberry from where it's vibrating on his abdomen, Soap swipes his thumb right, answering the call.

'MacTavish sp-'

A harsh, East Essex accent cuts him off in less than two seconds flat. '… _You haven't been fucking breeding, have you_?'

Soap cracks an eyelid, frowning rather emphatically at a half-dead pot plant in his living room. He knows exactly who the grumpy bastard on the other end is, but why Griffin is contacting him is another question entirely.

'Like a rabbit, mate,' Soap answers, casual, quick – not wanting to seem thrown. Of their regiment, he and Griffin were known to get on the least. 'Why do you ask?'

' _Wanker_ ,' there's a faintly amused snort. ' _Some bint picked up your personal. Sounded a bit young, even for you…_ '

Griffin was in his early thirties, and Soap in his mid-twenties. The age bollocks never failed in getting under his skin, though Soap has learned to ignore it. Especially with Griffin - the man taking a rather vindictive pleasure in riling him up.

Massaging the bridge of his nose, Soap lets out a soft sigh. He'd been at his aunt's last night, after chauffeuring the old man back home. A family reunion. It hadn't been all sunshine and rainbows – rarely was – and he'd left in a bit of a hurry, around the time his Ma started in on her fourth glass of red. 'Teenager? Pricklier than a bloody hedgehog?'

' _Sounds about right.'_

Soap doesn't need to guess who it was. 'That's Cassidy – a cousin.'

The other man makes a rough, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. _'So, in a few years, she'd a prime candidate for you, eh?'_

If groaning out loud didn't run the risk of giving the bastard some kind of satisfaction, Soap would have – his expression twisting in complete and utter distaste. '…Did you need something?'

Sometimes, to keep the peace, you just had to pretend some things were never said at all.

Griffin laughs lowly, the sound crackling over the line. He knew he'd succeeded in pushing a button, but thankfully didn't seem interested in following through. Or that's the impression Soap got, considering his next words.

' _Just wanted to make sure you didn't off the Captain last night? He hasn't been answering my calls.'_

Concern was a funny thing in a tight-knit group of career soldiers, but the truth was that in a lot of ways, despite what some thought of the hyper masculine military culture, it always felt a little bit more _real_. If you asked Gaz, it was an unintended side effect of living in each other's arses for so long. Yet despite his strained tolerance of Griffin, Soap knows without a doubt that he'd be the first to show up if Soap ever needed him to, which is something he couldn't say as confidently about some of his immediate family.

'He was one foot in the grave last night,' Soap freely admits, recalling the pale skin, sunken eyes and cough that had to have hurt each time it rasped out of his throat. 'But no, I didn't push the bastard in. The old man was doing a well enough job of finding the last nail for his coffin himself.'

' _Hm.'_

It was uncharacteristic of Price to ignore his squadron. Be short with them, yes. Irritated, definitely. But stoutly offer anyone the cold shoulder? Not bloody likely. There was a lot of responsibility riding on his particular position, and Price hadn't made a name for himself by cutting his losses when those responsibilities stepped outside of business hours.

Loyalty and respect were earned through hard work, after all.

Soap is opening his mouth to ask if they – hell, just _he_ , if it means he doesn't have to put up with two grumpy fuckers – should go around and make sure the old man hasn't lost his duel with the reaper, when Griffin beats him to the punch.

' _Go around and check on him?'_

Soap's free hand closes, knuckles going white – gaze darkening with annoyance. No 'please', just an order – an expectation for the F.N.G to hop to. It might have taken him years of service to make SAS, but restarting in an entirely new arm of the military meant he was back on the bottom rung.

Not quite able to keep the frustration out of his tone, Soap grumbles; 'Aren't you the one trying to contact him?'

Griffin snorts, disparaging. _'You're closer.'_

Soap sucks in a breath, about to tell Griffin to put on his big boy pants and do it himself or wait until Soap heads over there himself on Thursday, when he's greeted by the dial tone.

A second passes, then another.

With a swell of irritation, Soap slowly lowers the phone from his ear – scowl taking over his features as he tosses the bloody thing away onto his coffee table, immediately reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants for keys.

 _Fucking child._

.

.

.

With a sense of déjà vu, Soap pulls into Price's driveway forty five minutes after being hung up on -

'Oh, tell me you're bloody joking.'

\- and finds himself parked behind an older style BMW, the driver-side door keyed to high hell. Leaning against it, with his bright, green gaze – no doubt sparking with amusement at Soap's torment – hidden behind a pair of sunglasses and his arms crossed casually over his chest, is Griffin.

Soap momentarily considers hitting the accelerator, rear-ending the bastard's car and finishing the job his ex-wife had recently started.

Fortunately for Griffin, Soap's love for his old girl – with her slowly failing engine and leaky exhaust pipe – outstripped his desire for blood. Applying the brakes as the rear view lights of Griffin's BMW crept closer and closer, Soap, deciding to let out his inner arsehole, drifted close enough to completely block the other man in before turning off the engine and climbing out of the car.

His 'what the fuck' face must have been going strong as he all but slammed his door closed, because Griffin decided to offer an explanation before he could demand one.

'You're too easy to fuck with, Soap.'

The smirk on the blonde's lips is about as aggravating as the words themselves. 'Did you make me drive all the bloody way out here just to hold your hand?'

'Come on, mate,' Griffin says, teeth flashing in a mocking smile. 'Don't be so pissy, eh? I wasn't going to leave you to be eaten alive.'

'… Should have, and saved me the misery of your company.'

'That shiny new spine of yours has grown in well, hasn't it?' A laugh. Soap can't help but be a touch tense as Griffin claps him on the shoulder. 'Come on, F.N.G. Let's see if the old man's still in the land of the living. I swear to fucking God, if the sniffles have taken his arse out...'

The corporal turns away from him, starting up the steps to Price's porch. Soap watches him for a few beats before reluctantly following.

It's honestly concerning, that the curtains, the house, haven't stirred. Griffin's vehicle might have managed to fly under the radar, but Soap's Ford would have been heard from two streets over.

'Are you sure he's-'

 _In_ , Soap was going to say. Until Griffin balled his hand into a fist and started utterly _hammering_ the door, each blow making the plywood rattle on its hinges. He keeps it up for a solid minute, barking out an obligatory; ' _Oi, Price_ ', before finally, thankfully, coming to a stop.

'You're not going to let me be eaten alive, aye?' Soap says into the sudden silence, eyes wide with incredulity. 'If you keep this shite up, he's going to do us both.'

Griffin doesn't seem to hear him. 'Well, that bloody didn't work...'

Stepping back, the other man starts to look around the front of the building – leaning down at one point to lift the dirty welcome matt. Soap isn't entirely clued in to what he's doing, but he can't for the life of him bite back the sarcastic remark dancing on the tip of his tongue.

'Your observational skills are remarkable, mate.'

Hands now rummaging through a fern sitting by the house's entrance, Griffin glances back at him, an eyebrow cocked questioningly. 'Is that Gaz I hear?'

Soap rolls his eyes.

Leaves rustle, loud, in the background. Griffin's getting dirt on his fingers, under his nails, and Soap twitches a little in disgust as an earth worm is tossed thoughtlessly out onto the wooden deck. It seizes – not accustomed to being out in the open, and in a moment of pity, Soap reaches down and returns it to the dirt.

'Where did MacMillan put the bloody- ah,' Griffin straightens, holding something up to the light. 'Here it is.'

Wiping his hands clean on his own grey hoodie, Soap looks up – and then goes completely still as confusion rolls over him in waves. Because what he's seeing? Utter bollocks.

'What...?'

The question is too ridiculous to complete, but Griffin understands it regardless, not in the least bit bothered by the veritable kryptonite in his grip. 'Price's spare key,' he explains, guiding the sucker into the lock and navigating his way through Price's defences with a single twist. 'Hoped it would still be there. His sister abuses it way too bloody much.'

Soap is still stuck on the first part of his sentence.

'Price has a spare key?' It goes against literally everything he knows of the man – every cautious, over paranoid quality their Captain seems to have. Next to him, Griffin shakes his head.

'No. MacMillan does.'

That particular distinction clears up approximately _none_ of Soap's questions, so he waits – steadfastly refusing to move until Griffin gives him a better explanation. Apparently unwilling to break into his Captain's house on his own, the corporal eventually complies. 'MacMillan stashed it there a while back, in case we ever needed it.'

Soap frowns. 'Does Price know about it?'

'Yes.'

'And he's left it there?'

Griffin shrugs. 'Don't think he knows where it is.'

'You found it within two minutes,' Soap says, slowly. 'How the bloody hell _wouldn't_ he know?'

It's a valid question, though that doesn't stop it from getting on Griffin's last nerve. Grabbing the scruff of Soap's hoodie, he shunts the younger man through the front door with a surprising amount of force. 'Because who the fuck puts a key in a stupid place like that, eh? Nobody in their right mind would look there, would they?'

Soap's feet nearly go out from under him – his arm blindly groping out to find a wall. He hadn't expected Griffin to be a total wanker, but that was his mistake – his body tilting dangerously until his knuckles scraped plaster. Finding purchase, Soap slams himself into the hard surface, using it for balance before, rather angrily, spinning around to glare at Griffin and his cocky fucking smirk.

'Don't look at me like that, Soap,' the man says, dryly, as he stands in the corridor, blocking off any chance of escape. 'We need to wake up Sleeping Beauty, and I sure as fuck am not going to be the one giving the old man a kiss.'

 _Such a fucking child._

Behind them both, the door swings shut.

* * *

 _A/N: - super special thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed! This story is evolving a little bit from what I planned for originally, but I hope it keeps the same charm. :)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Everybody Falls  
** Chapter Three

* * *

 **Message received today at 3:34pm.**

' _Mac, would you pick up your bloody phone?'_

The line crackles – the voice on the other end easy to place, considering the amount of times he'd reasoned with Mark Griffin over the man's failing marriage. It'd taken a ceramic bowl shattered over the lad's face, and quite a few weeks of constant monitoring every time the poor bastard's wife visited before they'd finally gotten her claws out of him.

MacMillan had been one of the few who could talk him down from trying to go back to the abusive relationship without it devolving into a fight. That had fostered a level of trust – one that resulted in MacMillan being the first point of call for help.

'… _We found Price passed out in the shower. Soap's in there with him now, but we could use you, mate. Fuck knows that he never listens to us…'_

The message cuts off.

Stunned silence – a heart that thumps into an unusual rhythm. MacMillan stares at the now blank screen of his smartphone for a beat, compartmentalising, before collecting his coat and limping out of the front door.

.

.

.

'… Old man?'

Water drips against cracked bathroom tiles; welling into puddles before the sloping gradient of the floor drags it down into the drain. Soap stands at the edge of the running shower, wayward droplets occasionally hitting his jeans, his exposed skin – the temperature icy enough that if he had the presence of mind to guess, he'd say that the pipes were still thawing from a deep freeze overnight.

But he isn't really thinking; horror and alarm crashing over him like a rogue wave – hard, heavy, as it pushes him under the surface, knocking the breath out of him. Refusing to let him come up for air.

Price is on the ground.

Back pressed against a glass pane; head lolling down towards his chest. It doesn't seem like he's fallen, but consciously slumped down at some point. Fatigue, or dizziness, causing his legs to buckle. Still in a loose shirt and pants, which are now sodden and sticking to flushed skin, it's like he's crawled out of bed and straight into the bathroom. Desperate to cool himself off.

The sight of his superior officer looking like death warmed over has his heart thundering in his chest, his pulse pounding in his ears. Soap feels his mouth go dry, his hands clammy, but that doesn't stop him from carefully pulling back the plastic curtain, rings scraping along the metal rail – years of being taught to _act_ instinctively driving him forward.

Stepping into the downpour is almost like rolling in fucking snow. His hoodie is soaked through in seconds, raising goose bumps on his arms. Plastering his Mohawk against his scalp. Soap grimaces at the sensation of liquid sliding down the back of his neck as he hunkers down next to Price, hand reaching out grasp the old man's shoulder. A gentle shake; fingers digging in a little painfully. Vice-like with concern.

'Oi, Price…'

There's a soft grunt – eyes moving rapidly beneath eyelids. Soap uses his other hand to reach up and tap the man's face; heat resonating against his palm. _Fever_.

'Come on, old man,' he says, voice low, calm. Price is a few decades past involuntary reaction at this point, but Soap has dealt with rousing wounded soldiers before. Sometimes it was smiles and bravado. Other times it was fists and anger. 'I've already pulled the short straw. Wake up before I have to snog you, aye?'

A rasping cough. Price swallows thickly, slowly raising his head. It seems to take him a minute to adjust; unable to do more than squint, his brow furrowed in… well, at this stage, Soap figures it's no small amount of confusion as to why the fuck he's joined the old man in the privacy of his own shower. '… You wouldn't bloody dare.'

His relief is almost tangible; a half-grin appearing on his face. 'If dropping a sloppy kiss on you helped, old man, I'd do it in a bloody heartbeat.'

It's a joke. Light-hearted, teasing. But Soap doesn't pretend that it makes the situation any less serious than it is; the fact that Price is almost _rattling_ with each breath cluing him in to the sordid state of affairs. This isn't a common cold, and the old man _cannot_ stay in this ice bath.

'… Charming.' The word takes a fair bit of effort – far too hoarse, the wince as it tumbles past Price's lips indicating that there's a fair bit of pain. He coughs again, into a clenched fist.

'You're not the first to tell me that,' Soap says, winking, as reaches up above them both to turn off the tap. The water is spitting – has been for a while, probably due to the tank running low – and as he starts to twist the knob, Price moves as though to try and abort the action. Soap knocks his arm back lightly. 'You need a bed, not a waterboarding, old man. Let's get you out of here.'

Steel enters his Captain's expression, forewarning a bollocking. 'Soap-'

'You look like shite,' another time, and Soap would have taken it like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs. But this isn't another day at the office, and as lucid as Price seems right now, he's not firing on all cylinders. Soap knows that – knows it enough that he's comfortable putting his foot down, letting an edge of his own creep into his voice. 'I expect you feel like shite, too. I'm worried. You've bloody scared Mark enough that he's hiding in the other room. So lock it up, and get off your arse, before I put a boot in it.'

Ringing silence. Soap releases Price and quickly gets to his feet, expression uncharacteristically stern. Catholic families had a tendency to get big, and Soap has been forcibly exposed to enough siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, to have become experienced in the role of caregiver. Offering a hand – an olive branch, in the hopes that the old man can swallow his pride and meet him halfway – Soap waits, nerves standing on end.

Price seems to glance at the gauntlet lying on the floor, face severe, jaw tight – and, unbeknownst to Soap, _not_ weighing his options. There's an air of grudging respect flitting behind glazed eyes, and then, snorting a little, Price clasps the hand with his own.

 _(There's only one way forward, considering what's just been said.)_

Soap pulls him up wordlessly – feeling weakness, dead weight. He digs in, using his strength to lift his superior from the tiles, and only lets go when Price finds purchase on unsteady feet.

'… Who taught you your bedside manner, eh?'

'Ma,' Soap quips. With an arm hovering near the old man, just in case, he guides him out into the larger bathroom – dark gaze locked on Price. Every movement is recorded, every shuffle-step analysed for stability. 'Towels?'

Price doesn't seem to process the question very well, silent for a few seconds too long. Focus locked on maintaining balance, by the looks of it, and _Christ_ is it telling. He's in struggle town, and Soap decides then and there, that first thing come morning, Price was going to a doctor. Willing or not.

'You do have towels?' Soap prompts as they reach the door to the hallway, tracking puddles all over the place. He pauses there, blocking Price, so the old man doesn't have to multitask. 'We're not living in the bloody stone age, are we?'

That gets an unimpressed look, followed by a grunted _linen cupboard_ – and a finger jabbed somewhere over his shoulder. Soap turns – sees the set of cupboards tucked into a niche within the corridor, and understands.

He leaves Price for a moment, never completely turning his back – the old man still in his peripheral vision – to gather up some towels. When he opens the cupboard, he's a little surprised - most of the linen in there being of a quality he doesn't quite expect. The women in his Captain's life looked after him well, it seemed.

Taking what he needs, Soap shifts around with his arms full, noting that Price has already moved past him and is in the process of opening another door. His bedroom, Soap realises as he closes the distance between them, catching sight of tussled sheets, black out blinds and a queen-sized bed. Pausing at the threshold, he pushes a towel into the old man's grip before he can lock Soap out with pointedly slammed wood. 'You alright, old man?'

Price clears his throat, wheezing – breathless. 'I'll live.'

Not wanting to start anything about the fact that he looked like he was about to go on a date with the reaper just yet, Soap nods. 'Get changed into something dry, aye?'

There's a horrible, chesty laugh. 'No need to mollycoddle me, Soap. I'm sick, not a bloody invalid.'

'I won't lie to you – you're looking a bit like both, at the moment.'

Of the men in Price's squadron, Gaz is the only one who rivals Soap for the out-and-out, blunt, emotional honesty – both of them unashamed to show concern, or voice it. It's an interesting way to be. Something that tended to disrupt the status quo. Yes, each and every one of them had each other's back, but was it openly acknowledged? Not likely…

'…You can kick in the door if you think my arse is having a stroke,' Price finally says, partially ignoring, partially conceding – his lips twisted with general distaste. 'But you can bloody well pay for it.'

Soap cocks an eyebrow, the idea of leaving Price alone for too long not particularly on the cards. 'I don't want to renovate the place just to bring you tea, old man.'

'Knock.'

'You didn't hear us the first time.' Soap is pushing a button, and he knows it, but there are red flags _everywhere_ and his Ma had always accused him of being a bull in a China shop. Dragging the old man down to A &E is what _should_ be happening right now, but the stubborn bastard would put up a fight. Soap needed back up before he crossed that line – back up that Griffin's no doubt called by now. 'The neighbours did. That woman across the road was looking at us like we were shite on the bottom of her shoe.'

'I don't blame the bint,' Price tells him flatly, not bothering to pull the punch, and not willing to acknowledge the severity of the problem. Gesturing at Soap's hand, which is curled around the door frame, Price gives him a warning. '… Watch your fingers, son.'

Soap blinks once, twice, and then snatches his hand away just in time to avoid them being caught as Price, for the second time in as many days, shuts a door in his face.

In the minutes that follow; Soap scowls at the wall, having heard a lock click into place.

'You've got fifteen minutes, old man.'

.

.

.

When Soap enters the kitchen; Griffin is waiting for him.

He's leaning on the countertop, arms crossed, reading through a newspaper – _The Observer_ – from a few days prior, his phone discarded near his elbow. It's clear that he knows Soap's there – he'd be a fucking piss poor excuse of a soldier if he didn't – but he doesn't say anything. Not at first.

'Thought you didn't like leftist bollocks,' Soap remarks flatly, sliding in behind the bench and immediately going on a hunt for cups – not particularly caring if his irritation shines through.

There's the sound of a page turning – Griffin sniffing slightly as he continues reading, apparently still being avoidant of the situation. 'Know thy enemy, mate.'

Soap shakes his head – unhappy. It would be cheap to say that Griffin had tricked him into coming so that Soap could do all the heavy lifting, but it sure as shite felt like that was the case. 'Be useful and put the bloody kettle on, would you?'

The tone, let alone the order, should have been enough to warrant a sharp bite from the corporal, but instead, Soap only has to wait a moment before he hears water being put on to boil. The prickling sensation on the back of his neck tells him that he's quick to become the subject of Griffin's scrutiny soon after. '…I take it Price was a fucking pain in the arse?'

If there'd been a lemon around, it would have looked like Soap had been sucking on it in that second. 'About as stubborn as the fat lady refusing to sing.'

Finding a tin full of tea bags, Soap picks one out – ripping the tag so violently from one that it tears, tea leaves spilling out. With a grumbling sigh, he tosses it aside and picks up another, this time teasing the tag away with forced patience before dropping it into a chipped cup. It's black tea – nowhere near as good as ginger and honey, but better than plain water, or coffee, for giving the old man some relief.

Across from him, Griffin glances at Soap, then the destroyed tea bag, before wordlessly moving to the pantry and collecting the jar of sugar. He sets it down on the counter next to the younger man, and parks himself right beside him. 'Nothing new, then?'

'No,' Soap shrugs, feeling tension in his shoulders. Feeling strained. '… Seems to think a magical fairy is going to pop down and fix him. He doesn't have a fucking cold. Bloody muppet needs a doctor.'

A snort, which doesn't sit well with Soap's growing temper. Griffin nudges him with his elbow, lightly, his expression devoid of arrogance when Soap turns to glower at him. 'Stop worrying, eh? He's not going to fall in a day.'

'Isn't that what they said about Troy?' Soap gripes back, reaching for the kettle – devoutly thinking that if he's worrying too much, then Griffin is worrying too little. 'Did you call Gaz?'

'Would have, if I thought it would help,' Griffin is so used to blisteringly enraged glares being thrown his way, that Soap's doesn't so much as make him flinch. 'Got on the horn to the big kahuna himself. Price says 'no' to him, he won't live to remember it.'

It doesn't take Soap long to put two and two together, eyes widening slightly – because despite his months of service, he's never actually been in the same room as the veritable legend out of uniform. 'MacMillan?'

Griffin looks far too pleased with himself, so much so that he passively ignores his phone suddenly vibrating with a message – too busy grinning at Soap. 'That's the one.'

'Christ…' In all honesty, it's a relief… and a concern, because Soap isn't stupid enough to think that the old man is going to be particularly happy about them going _that_ far above his head. Frowning slightly, he finishes making the drink. 'Why wouldn't Gaz have worked, again?'

'Probably would have achieved about the same as you. Maybe less… Price has a habit of only listening to the young, and the old. The rest of us are chopped liver.'

Cryptic. Soap rolls his eyes at the response – Griffin's phone vibrating again in the background. 'Don't start talking to me in riddles. You're bloody annoying enough as it is.'

That was the wrong thing to say; the Cheshire cat smirk twisting Griffin's lips immediately filling Soap with regret. 'If you have a problem with me, Soap…'

'I'll tell my therapist about it, aye?' Soap says without missing a beat. He steps over to the sink, depositing the spoon in with the rest of the clutter – his gaze flicking sideways as Griffin's phone shudders for the umpteenth time. 'You going to answer that? Before I toss it through the window?'

'Oi… who pissed in your cereal this morning?'

'Wanker was about your size. Had the same ugly mug, too.'

'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, mate,' Griffin leans across the bench to pick up the device, his jacket riding up just enough that Soap sees a patch of discoloration. A bruise? Soap narrows his eyes, suspicions rising, his hand reaching out subconsciously to see how far the damage went… until Griffin makes a strange noise, straightening, attention locked on his illuminated screen. 'Huh… it's you.'

'…Eh?'

'Your work phone,' Griffin scrolls through the messages, rapidly reading through several lines of text. Unnaturally serious, he looks up after a moment. '… Does little Miss Prickly still have it?'

An alarm sounds off, ringing in his head – his spine snapping ramrod straight. Without bothering to ask, Soap stalks back and peers over Griffin's shoulder.

 **Hey, angry dude… [3:54pm].**

 **I need Johnny. Can you tell him to come and get me from mum's? [3:55pm].**

 **She threw an iron at me and took my phone. [3:56pm].**

 **I'm kind of… pregnant. [3:58pm]**

… It's like he's back in the fucking shower again, icy water dousing him from head to toe. He closes his eyes – scrubs a hand down his face. Tries not to ball his hands into fists. _Pregnant?_ Soap hadn't thought the girl had it in her, _yet_ , but that's the least concerning thing about what he's just read. _A fucking_ _ **iron.**_ Is that true? He can't make a judgement call on that. Not until he's gone to investigate. Even if it's bollocks, he needs to check on the kid…

'You out, then?' Griffin is quick to ask, grounding him back in the present. Soap doesn't know what to say, but he knows what his decision has to be. Both Price and Cassidy are family, but one had to come before the other.

'I…' Soap looks at the texts again, feeling utterly lost. Murphy's fucking law was a _cunt_. 'Ah, _shite_ …'

Griffin, sensing the turmoil, steps up – for once displaying one of his few redeeming qualities. 'Go and get her, mate. I can handle this. Maybe bring her with you if you want to come back. Remind Price why he chose to be a career soldier in the first place, eh?'

Soap sucks in a breath – calms himself down. 'Aye, I'll… do that.'

'Fucking great,' Griffin collars him with an arm around his neck, pulling him in, brother to brother, hand scruffing through Soap's hair. He lets him go quickly, moving around him, pressing his phone into Soap's pocket, apparently uncaring that the hoodie is still damp. A direct line to his cousin – Soap's personal mobile still sitting pretty on his dining room table, back home. 'While you bugger off, I'll take Price this shit. Steal myself those brownie points…'

'… Prick,' Soap says, not needing to verbalise a 'thank you', because it already hung silently in the air between them. Griffin isn't one for heart to hearts, anyway. '… Don't let him drop dead, aye?'

Griffin's response is entirely too cheerful. 'Wouldn't dream of it, mate.'

* * *

 _A/N - A super special thank you to Little Yellow Sunflower, Baffled Queen and UrgentOrange for the reviews. It's always so heartening to see feedback, and I am so sorry that I haven't gotten around to PM-ing each of you. I am truly terrible at that, but I want you to know that I am grateful. Also a very warm thank you to everyone who has fav'd!_

 _This chapter was a bit of a pain to write, but it got somewhere I am happy with (after so many burnt drafts). Fair warning for the future, loves - there will be some OCs and mentions of domestic violence. I hope that doesn't put anyone off._


	4. Chapter 4

**Everybody Falls  
** Chapter Four

* * *

Wheels crunch across worn asphalt; groaning as one slides into a pothole, the others struggling to pull it out.

Soap grumbles under his breath, knowing that his car doesn't need this. She's loyal, of course – hardier than an old leather boot. But that doesn't stop her from digging into his pockets with soft, delicate hands that promise a good time, yet leave him with hot frustration. Courtney Love, in a horrible, dented chassis.

He needs a bloody upgrade, even if he's more likely to spend half his time travelling in a Little Bird, because this bucket of bolts isn't doing him any favours – the last woman he'd almost sweet-talked out of a bar giving it a _look_ that'd thrown cold water on their plans; his joking 'it does turns back into a pumpkin at midnight… looks like we're a few minutes past, aye?' only serving to shift said _look_ onto him. Or maybe he was just shite at flirting…

That's the particular thought running through his mind - failing love life consuming any annoyance over his aunt and uncle's laziness. It dances in his head, cold, taunting, tight up until the point that his windscreen cracks; blunt trauma imprinting a spider's web on the clear glass so suddenly that Soap very nearly loses his shit.

 _Scorching heat, billowing dust – ears that ring in the darkness, suddenly lit by flickering orange light. Flames lapped against twisted metal; like a cat relishing a fresh kill, and the head of the driver is gone. Sheered off by pointed shards – the explosion's force almost taking him, too –_

The passenger door rips open on his right, startling Soap out of his reverie – dragging him back into the present.

Black hair, tinted with neon red bobs into view. It's been straightened so many times that it's stiff, unable to curve around a heart-shaped face – instead hanging there in flat lines, even as his cousin launches into his car, all freckles and panic, her green eyes almost as wide as his own.

'Go,' she squeals, locking herself in. 'Go, go, go, go!'

Soap feels his mouth open, feels it close – hand already propelling them into reverse as something else rebounds off his bonnet. That'll be another dent. He can see the crazy wench intent on destroying his property; his aunt thankfully two inches shorter and ten kilos fatter than his own mother, despite their similarity in looks. A harsh, snarling curse tears itself out of his throat, but he doesn't have time to stop. Not when she collects a spade, the tip muddy, and starts wielding the bloody thing like a club.

'Christ!'

Wheels skitter back down the bitumen, unhappily finding the same pothole they'd warred with earlier. Soap's arse leaves the seat briefly as they bounce, but not for long – their ride becoming infinitely smoother after he jack knifes a turn onto the road, and thrusts them into drive, his arm reflexively flicking out like a safety rail, preventing his cousin from smacking her nose on the dashboard.

He's a block over before he calms down enough to think properly; instinctively heading back the way he'd come.

 _What. The. Fuck._

.

.

.

'Afternoon, sunshine.'

The look on the old man's face when he dutifully answers the knock is – without any premeditated intent for a terrible pun – fucking _priceless_.

'… You're still here, then?'

Griffin's leer, which has arguably done more for keeping the ladies away from him than the ring that used to sit on his finger, dips only slightly when he meets a pair of bloodshot eyes. Soap hadn't been overreacting – Price as fighting fit as a ninety year old about to go into hospice.

'With you on your deathbed, where else would I be?' Griffin drawls; not appearing at all concerned. He moves a little – offering the steaming, flower mug cupped in his hands with the air of someone confident enough in their masculinity that petunia covered china was hardly a threat. 'Besides, Wallcroft's had his eye on the 'Enfield. Figured I'd better stake my claim on the fucker, if you're kicking the bucket.'

There were people who wore their hearts on their sleeves, while others liked to guard their vulnerability behind stone walls, on top of sheer cliffs. Griffin, on the other hand, preferred to deflect anything that bordered on _deep_ with a unique brand of bastardry.

'Not a bloody chance in hell,' Price grimaces, having to dig the words out of his own throat. The pain drives him to go against his better judgement and accept the drink his corporal is almost batting him in the chest with. 'Wouldn't trust the pair of you with scissors.'

'You wanker… my hands are steady, I'll have you know. Can piss in a straight line now, and all.'

'Lovely.'

'You're not the first to tell me that,' most of the people who'd mentioned it before were related, though Griffin is hardly going to broadcast that point. 'Certainly not the prettiest either, mate.'

Price grunts. This is a show he has little patience for, and he slices through it like a knife fresh off a whetstone. 'You aren't here to play nursemaid. That's why you brought Soap… Bastard's far too polite to go nosing around in other people's business.'

A sardonic note enters Griffin's voice; the corporal crossing his arms. He preferred to play the game – cat and mouse, forever dancing around the point. 'You telling me to fuck off?'

'I'm asking you what you want.'

'Is that what you said? I must be going deaf…' The old man's blunt question isn't something he can evade, and Griffin does his best to ignore that Price can still manoeuvre through his bollocks, when he rightfully shouldn't be able to see straight. '… Some cock cut my power, so I thought I'd come down here for entertainment. The F.N.G was a bonus.'

Insurance, more like.

'… Outage?' Price croaks after a beat, blocking out everything but the important information Griffin offered; the tea in his grip clearly doing very little to soothe.

Griffin shrugs – cocky grin still in place, though his eyes dip slightly, hovering near Price's collarbone. 'Something about not paying the sodding bill…'

'Hm.' There's several judgements the old man can make. The fact that Griffin has been bleeding money since the minute his mother tucked a penny in his hand, quite well known. That tendency to break his bank with the unnecessary had only gotten worse with his wife, but Price doesn't mention it – a headache born out of poking Griffin's sore spots, unwanted on top of a budding migraine. 'I take it that's why you were blowing up my phone, eh?'

'I knew you were screening my bloody calls,' Griffin laughs. It's not quite as amused as it had been moments earlier, his body language shifting imperceptibly. He's on the back foot; hating the very idea of airing his dirty laundry. Of asking for help.

'Yet that's what his intention had been.

An agitated hand scruffs through his hair. Price is looking at him with the same expression he'd worn the day Griffin had been tossed at his feet. Drunk. Bleeding. Wheezing harsh, ragged breaths. The corporal having had his arse handed to him by two angry, yet restrained, green berets determined to mete out a lesson in humility.

Lips pressed into a thin, severe line, Price had gazed at Griffin – on his knees in the muck, with a hand, stained crimson, cupping his nose – before slowly reaching down to haul him up. Deft fingers had encircled Griffin's forearm, strength allowing the old man to lift the taller, heavier soldier onto his feet. At the time, Griffin had been trying to stop the steady flow of blood pissing down his face, but when he'd finally been forced to meet the eyes of his OC – all anger, and resentment, because neither of them had the personalities for quick and easy bonding that early in the relationship – he'd found… none of the annoyance, or disdain he'd come to expect.

Only something that looked an awful lot like concern, from a man who rarely displayed it.

Behind closed doors, they could snap and growl at each other until the cows came home. But when it came to the welfare of one of theirs… they were a united front. Family outside of blood. Looking out for each other, even if the bastard putting their arses in the fire had asked for it.

'Didn't hear the bloody thing,' Price says in brief, rasping explanation, brow furrowed slightly. Despite unfocused pupils and an unwillingness to stare directly into the light, his Captain seemed to see right through him. '… Important, was it?'

Griffin feels his mouth go dry – runs his tongue over his teeth. Price shouldn't be upright, let alone wading through another sea of his shit. But a long time ago, a precedent had been set. A struggling young man pulled out of the brink, because someone had thought to offer a hand. Price was about as allergic to emotions as Griffin bloody was, but he took care of his own, and right now, Griffin… is selfish enough to put himself forward.

At least this way, he can keep an eye on the old man, instead of leaving him to shrivel up under the blankets of his bed, like a stubborn prune.

'I… just wanted, needed, to ask… about that loan I gave you, if… _bloody hell_ …'

He's almost uncomfortable enough to consider letting Price prune himself. Thankfully, though, Price seems to find Griffin's struggle to put together a simple sentence as fucking painful as he does – analytical mind still present enough that he can piece together the in-between. 'Chequebook's in the lounge, muppet.'

Price's bare feet pad against his wooden floors; slow, careful, but determinedly leading the way. The relief of no questions hits him, tempered only slightly by the old man's scratchy barb.

'Come on – before your face gets stuck looking like a slapped arse.'

Griffin ambles after him, hands tucked into his pockets – eyebrow cocking at the man's back. 'It'd be a cute arse though, right?'

.

.

.

MacMillan limps up the steps of Price's bungalow; arm straining, the rubber end of his walking stick thudding against the concrete. He's been here before, of course. Many times, though it's the first that stays with him – the memory of dragging a reluctant, newly appointed Captain through the front yard, determined to show the bastard the benefits of living outside a matchbox – unique enough to stand out in years of new experiences.

Like most lads that hadn't quite managed to tie the knot back then, Price hadn't been interested in buying into a life, a future, beyond the hard and fast realities of his job. Able to condense his very existence into one tightly packed duffel bag, there'd been no need for space – for large, empty rooms, rustic red bricks and wooden beams that criss-crossed, exposed, under a soft, white ceiling that was starting to yellow in its age. Because, despite the nostalgia – echoes of childhood springing unbidden in his mind – Price, at the time, simply hadn't had anything to fill the place with. Nothing to shape it into his own.

That was the nature of the beast, MacMillan knew. The consequence of becoming a career soldier; always more interested in where you'd be, what you'd be doing, than where you'd return to. _What_ you'd return to.

 _If you'd return, at all._

MacMillan had been similar, once, before a buggered leg landed him out in the cold. Active duty replaced with an honourable discharge, on medical grounds. The game had ended; any chance of wading back into the addictive thrill of combat, quiet and deadly, with the whole world against him, gone in the blink of an eye. He'd been tossed like yesterday's garbage. Reduced to a desk, paperwork.

It'd given him some perspective, over time.

Enough for him to know that if things ever went south for his prodigy, Price would want to have something to fall back on. Something safe, and comfortable. With room to grow once he'd slowly, carefully, climbed back onto his feet. It was one of MacMillan's biggest fears; being caught unprepared. Having his family caught unprepared. Left torn apart and in turmoil, wracked with instability. Price isn't blood, but MacMillan has never paid much mind to _blood is thicker than water_ ; the fire and brimstone of war teaching him that there could be bonds far stronger.

Over a decade ago; the then head of the 22 SAS Regiment had seen fit to hobble MacMillan with an arrogant, yet arguably talented, recruit. Fresh out of selection and leagues ahead of his colleagues, John Price had known it, too, though the archaic traditions of the military had kept the young man's pride in check. The 'sirs' came freely, orders followed with a compliance that was very rarely malicious. Price had wanted to climb the ladder, and had been smart enough to know that it called for trade-offs.

Being placed with MacMillan had been a bit of a culture shock, MacMillan's sure.

Known for his unerring patience, calm, and ability to stand day-in, day-out, in a screaming furnace without so much as a crack in his composure, MacMillan was the golden boy. The legend. The man who could make mountains move; raze strongholds to the ground. Out think, out manoeuvre and out live anyone that dared to go against him. Revered and respected in military circles an ocean over, MacMillan didn't need to posture. Didn't need to seat his head in the arse of the top brass to get somewhere – any attempts to play the politicking game a courtesy.

The powers-that-be had wanted Price moulded in MacMillan's image; and mould MacMillan had. In his own time; pace more fitting of a snail. There wasn't much that could be taught about lying in tall grass or rugged, Jordanian hills, waiting for a HVT to fall in line with the sniper scope. Price had already known those tricks of the trade; his grasp on combat and discipline ironclad. What the brass had wanted was another tactician. Another operative that could bend situations into acceptable outcomes, with teeth and nails alone.

That was harder to teach. Not impossible, but more difficult, and MacMillan had refused to do things by halves. The training was slow; meticulous. Exhausting Price's mind more so that his body, testing him in ways outside of the norm. MacMillan had always seen himself as a leader, not a fixed point of authority and he'd done his best to take the lad where he needed to be, but never demanded it from him; always making it clear that Price could bow out. Never snarling words of disdain, or anger, to drive him, because the best method of learning was _wanting_ to do it, after all.

MacMillan knows that Price, in those early months, stayed only because of MacMillan's reputation. Following a man that seemed to coast along on the outskirts of everything he'd known since the age of eighteen; who would reward progress with what Price considered the equivalent of a bloody _lollypop_ , was no easy task. Probably seemed bollocks, most of the time, and yet, somewhere, somehow, that changed.

It'd never been just about providing John with the skills so many admired in MacMillan himself, but in passing down knowledge MacMillan wished someone had dared to bestow on him when he was an up and coming grunt in the unforgiving world of special forces. And that was to look after yourself. Not only physically, but mentally – emotionally. To understand that there was more than the next face in their deck of cards; more than the satisfying, crimson spray of another successful mission; the roar and hiss of another building going up in flames.

Because there were beers around haphazardly built campfires in their off hours – ones that would make their resident master sergeant shit bricks if he'd seen the smoke from damp wood billowing up into the night sky. There were dinner dates with friends and pretty ladies alike; sister's that deserved a call back; mother's that needed a chance to see their son, even with an ailing memory. There was a life, outside of work. Maybe not as exciting; maybe not as fulfilling, but one that no doubt flashed before the eyes of many men cut down before their time.

Price had admittedly been slow to fully understand that lesson; but as the first year of their service together bled into the second, it was loyalty, not a burning desire to serve under the best of the best and maybe outdo him, that had made the lad stay.

Loyalty that was still going strong even now, even as MacMillan shoves into a house left open, drawn quickly and painlessly to his pray by a sharp, unforgiving cough.

 _Hasn't drowned, then._

'… Far be it from me to violate the chain of command, _sir_ ,' the dulcet tones of Griffin – Mark steadfastly poking the bear reach his ears as the corporal comes into view, followed quickly by the unstable silhouette of John. Flushed, with damp hair – which had recently started receding – he certainly didn't look _well_. 'But maybe you should sit down, eh?'

A grunt; presumably of indifference. John's gaze is locked on a booklet in his hand, his fingers wrapped around a pen that's scrawling in black ink. There's the sound of paper tearing – John thrusting a page at Mark, thumb absently clicking the pen to put away the ball point.

Mark gives the offering a cursory glance, and does a double take. 'I know you're a bit loopy, mate… but that's one more zero than I need.'

'Take it as a bribe to bugger off.'

'Is this how you deal with all the bastard's you don't like?'

'… Just the ugly ones.' The chequebook flicks out of John's hand – thrown onto a coffee table, stain rings marking the mahogany – and not a second later, he's hacking into a fist, wobbling a little on his feet. It sounds like he's trying to rip his windpipe apart, and he half-turns, away from Mark. '… Mac?'

More sputtering, though the scrunched expression of pain has turned into confusion. It's a surprise that neither of them had noticed him, but MacMillan gets the impression they're both a touch distracted. 'John,' the acknowledgement is easy-going, yet the sharp look he throws towards Mark, who's pocketed his prize and is fidgeting in a way that suggests he's about ready to excuse himself, is anything but. 'Been following the light, I see.'

'Not fast enough…' Price hacks again – near about regurgitating a lung, body juddering, swaying. Mark actually steps closer, uncertain, having been stayed by MacMillan's silent command. '… by the looks of it.'

The joke is irritated around the edges – macabre. MacMillan is painstakingly aware of the lad's somewhat dark sense of humour, but this time it falls far too closely to the truth, and he _isn't_ amused. 'You're too bloody stubborn for your own good, lad,' he remarks, uncharacteristically stern. He doesn't move closer – Mark far more capable of catching the bastard if he toppled. 'Sit your arse down before you fall, or I'll have Jaqueline down here fussing. I'm sure you won't appreciate her mothering more than mine.'

John's sister, MacMillan knows, is someone the man prefers to deal with in measured, small doses, that usually aren't administered in person. The Price siblings had perfected the art of communicating over the phone; where any conversation leaning towards an argument could be corrected by simply hanging up.

Several feet in front of him, John's perpetual frown is glowing a few shades darker than usual – reacting to the threat as though MacMillan had personally asked him to chew on rusty, barbed wire. Not deigning to enlighten either Mark or MacMillan with what they are both well aware are less than complimentary thoughts, Price forcibly swallows the next cough and does as he's told; letting himself slump back into his couch, leather depressing under his weight. Whether it's out of respect for his former OC, or knowledge that MacMillan has a tendency to follow through on his promises, he doesn't let slip.

With the danger of John collapsing face first onto the floor dealt with, MacMillan turns back to Mark, neatly assembling his ducks into a row. 'Where's MacTavish?'

Mark is watching John out of the corner of his eye, apparently knowing better than to mention how easily his Captain was cowed by the veteran sniper, despite the shite-stirrer in him trying to untangle his tongue. '… He's pregnant.'

A penny could have dropped, the silence was that prolific.

'Come again?' MacMillan says after a pause, before John chokes himself asking the same. Mark's trademark grin tugs at his lips, sensing an opportunity.

'His cousin,' Mark elaborates; clear as mud. He's a bit of a sadist, but not so much that he's about to air the F.N.G's dirty laundry in public, and when MacMillan's intense gaze slices into him, command presence demanding he cut the shit - Mark simply shrugs. 'Minor family emergency. Should be back – bit rattled, he was.'

It's a touch manipulative, but John's visible annoyance tempers at the remark – MacMillan himself dropping the subject, well-versed in knowing when to back up. Grip tightening a little on his cane, he surveys the room – noting the presence of an empty mug on the coffee table. He steps forward, picks it up; brandishes it like a weapon.

'Right, then,' he points at John; a hint of authority bleeding into his voice. 'You – you're going to the doctor tomorrow; A&E if this shite gets any worse tonight. Lord knows, I will not let you die of your own stupidity. I've put far too much effort into you for that, lad.'

If John takes that as a challenge, MacMillan doesn't give him a chance to vocalise it – his arm shifting; lining up with Mark, standing on his right. 'And you – you're going to make us tea.'

It takes a few seconds for the order to register – Mark blinking, frowning. 'I don't bloody drink tea.'

MacMillan cocks an eyebrow at the response. It's almost a daily task; telling Mark the world doesn't revolve around him. 'I don't remember your record mentioning an intolerance – just a couple of references to an intolerance of you.'

'Funny,' Mark say, eyes suddenly widening as MacMillan drops the cup into his hands – action quick, without warning. Forcing Mark to take it, because he knows the bugger won't accept it voluntarily. 'Oi… I meant that I don't fucking _make it_ , alright?'

'You're thirty-one, lad,' MacMillan says, slightly amused – his reminder punctuated by a derisive snort from the couch. 'Surely you've done it before.'

'Not bloody likely.'

A low, rumbling chuckle. MacMillan shakes his head, nudging the unimpressed corporal towards the kitchen, figuring that if he isn't pulling their leg, he's well enough adapted to landing on his feet. 'Good time to learn as any then, isn't it?'

.

.

.

Stomping footsteps; hushed voices arguing just out of earshot. Both noises draw closer, but are quickly eclipsed by the unmistakeable sound of teenage indignance.

'Stop asking me _stupid_ questions, Johnny. Like seriously, how do you think it happened? That I just slipped and fell onto someone's throbbing cock-'

A choked sputter – John 'Soap' MacTavish comes into view of the three men crowding Price's lounge room; neck speckled with unattractive, red blotches. He looks uncomfortable, yet oddly relieved as he catches sight of three blank stares. 'That's _not_ what I was asking. _Shite_ …'

'Then what _were_ you asking?'

The tone is imperious. So much so that it's hard to reconcile the very short, very thin girl that appears at the younger man's elbow with it. Realising that there were strangers afoot, Soap's tagalong pauses; glowering out from behind her barrier, mouth clicking shut.

MacMillan seizes the opportunity, eyeing them over the rim of what had to be one of the worst cups of shit he's ever forced down his gullet. 'MacTavish,' it seems to startle the lad, that he's the first to speak. MacMillan regrets that he hasn't gotten to spend a whole lot time with this one, considering how fast Price is to barrack for him behind closed doors. '… Who's this?'

He can guess, of course, but he'd like to put a name to the face, nonetheless. Stepping further inside the room; his hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie – sewn on the space tugged over his abdomen – Soap reveals the little blighter, answering. 'This is-'

'I'm a whore,' there's a haughty sneer on the girl's lips as she interrupts. Next to her, Soap closes his eyes with a sigh, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose. MacMillan feels his own eyebrows twitch upwards towards his greying hairline.

'You're starting early, lass.'

'Practising my _art_ ,' comes a sarcastic response. She snaps her head sideways as though to flick her hair, but the black strands, tinted red, stay valiantly in place. 'Isn't that right _, Johnny_?'

'That's _not_ what I said,' Soap growls, harassed. Out of his depth. 'Show some bloody respect, muppet. You're talking to the Director of Special Forces.'

There's a beat. MacMillan, still rather amused, considering, feels himself being sized up by someone half his size. It's quite easy to see that she finds him wanting; her expression more open than a book. 'He doesn't _look_ all that special.'

Laughter. Mark's is the loudest; barking savagely at his back, while John – the stubborn, sick John that should know better – wheezes out a chuckle, at his expense. MacMillan lets himself grin – more so to appease MacTavish, who's an artwork of visible embarrassment, than anyone else. 'Aye, lass. You're not wrong, but let's try and keep that between us, alright? You might break hearts, with that honesty.'

The grumpy brat harrumphs, but doesn't bite again. Soap rubs the back of his neck; grimacing. 'This is Cassidy, sir. I'm sorry – she's usually not as determined to swallow her own foot.' A hiss of offence escapes the teenager. MacMillan simply inclines his head; graciously accepting the apology, and Soap glances past him, relief becoming almost palpable for all to see. '...Glad you're alright, old man.'

'…I'm not that easy to get rid of, Soap.'

MacMillan takes a sip of his drink; tactfully hiding his expression. Mark rolls his eyes in the background, but says nothing, and Cassidy, bless her, doesn't seem to register that her cousin's just been equated to something one would rub under their pits in the shower. Too busy peering at the man Soap had just addressed with no small amount of concern.

'Old man?' It's a half-question; her knowledge of Soap's life apparently great enough to give the nickname some kind of meaning. '…I've heard about you. You're the _other_ John, yeah?'

For as long as he's known Price, MacMillan has never, once, seen the lad speak harshly to a child. Only people who should rightfully know better tended to bear the brunt of his disdain. Today is no different. '… Yes, love.'

Price rasps a cough, pained, as his words taper off. Cassidy frowns at him, then at her cousin, then at Price again, clearly not sure what to think. 'You said he was one foot in the grave, but to be honest, it looks like he's only got a toe in there, so…' she pauses, glancing at her cousin. Expectant. Hopeful. 'Can we go now?'

Soap scowls at her; keenly ignoring any attention shifting his way. 'No... Cass, what have I told you about having a bloody filter?'

'But I'm hungry,' she grumbles, crossing her arms – pouting, as though that might help. 'I've been locked in a room all day; what do you expect?'

In a heartbeat, some of the irritated lines melt away from Soap's face. Not because he's a sucker for puppy dog eyes, but because there's a cold truth in that seemingly harmless complaint. A reality that Soap ultimately doesn't want to confront, but knows he'll have to soon enough. '… I can't take you anywhere just yet, kid. The car's buggered. I'd need to ask…'

The name gets stuck in his throat; but Mark – Griffin seems to know the second the younger man's eyes seek him out, where the sentence was going. He doesn't appear all that impressed; immediately slipping on the offensive. 'Don't tell me you fucking crashed on a ten minute drive, mate.'

'He didn't crash – mum cracked his windshield with a pot plant.'

It's a quick rejoinder. One that undoubtedly shows where his fiery little cousin's loyalty lies, but also paints a clearer picture of why Soap seems strained. More so than he had been before he'd left – more so than in the minutes after dragging Price from an icy, spitting shower. Sadness briefly morphs his expression, and Mark backs off with a fleeting flash of regret – fumbling in his jacket.

' _Fucking hell_ … if you need to use mine…'

Soap looks grateful – stepping forwards, about to utter a thank you, when he is, yet again, cut off before he can get a word out at all.

This time, it's not his honorary ankle-biter.

It's Price.

'Order in,' the old man commands, using a voice better suited to a field operation – if a little breathless. It's clear that despite his struggles, he's starting to piece this together – one subordinate without money, another carting around a resentful, pregnant teenager – and the thought of letting either of them walk out the door? Not acceptable, even if he does feel heavier than cement – his bed the only place he wants to be. 'We could all use something to eat, eh? Besides… you're the only one who knows how to boil the bloody kettle without filling it with poison, Soap.'

Lowering his hand, Soap blinks, considering the old man's offer – head tilting to the side. He glances back at Cassidy; questioning, checking to see if that was alright by the resident princess.

While she's thinking, it's Mark who manages to answer first – mildly bitter, at the reference to his homemaking skills.

'… Well, _that_ was fucking rude.'

In the careful silence that follows, Cassidy shrugs, stifling a giggle – and Soap takes it as an affirmative, relaxing, reassured that somebody had his back.

* * *

 _A/N - Guys... I just wanted to say **thank you so much** for your feedback and continued support of this story. I was blown away by the quick response to chapter three, and it seriously gave me motivation to crank out this next piece. UrgentOrange, .Queen, Little Yellow Sunflower and Baffled Queen - you are lovely. I hope this chapter is as fun for you as it was for me._

 _Also - a special thank you to SassySatsuma, for beta'ing despite a busy work week. You are a darling!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Everybody Falls**  
Chapter Five

* * *

There's no rhyme or reason for the name that comes to his lips; thick and choked with blood.

None at all, considering the other man in the house – the decades of a cultivated relationship that far eclipse one short year.

But it comes anyway. Unbidden, with a desperate sense of urgency.

'… _Soap_.'

.

.

.

 **40 Minutes Earlier**

The last time Griffin was in the old man's house longer than five minutes, he'd had twenty-six stitches in his face and a 50/50 chance of losing the sight in his left eye.

It's a memory that still sets off a flutter of deep-seated anxiety whenever he thinks about it; his gut twisting and churning, knotting like a distel hitch. In one day, he'd been threatened with losing his wife, his career, _a part of what made him whole_ and the reality of that had fucking _terrified_ him. Leaving him unable to function. It was easy to out-manoeuvre bastards gunning for his head; easy to take hits with broken teeth and bloody smiles. Because that was a risk of the job. Fine print that he'd read and understood, before signing on the dotted line.

But when the hits came from his own corner; from a woman he'd stood in a church with half a decade ago, nervously promising the world in a ridiculously tight tuxedo, he hadn't known what to do. What to say. Who to turn to. 6"1' and built like a brick shithouse, the idea of admitting that it was painted nails and soft hands leaving most of his bruises had been laughable at best. Fear of becoming the butt of a fucking joke, locking his jaw until the moment she put her all into destroying him in the most absolute way possible.

He'd wandered the streets afterwards, hair matted with hot, sticky red. A shard of ceramic lodged in his cheek; blurry in his vision if he crossed his eyes and peered down. Except he couldn't really do that, with his left eye buggered beyond belief. Swollen; the iris looking like raspberry jelly. Seconds after the blow had knocked him for six, things had started looking fuzzy – like the picture on a television when the signal fucked itself sideways. And as time wore on, it was well on its way to fading black.

Griffin had been utterly beside himself, when the cops finally showed – called by a concerned neighbour, reporting a domestic. He'd lashed out as one went for his wrists, cold metal grazing his skin. That had ended rather brutally, with him writhing in the gutter. Shocked by a sodding tazer, because the love of his life had sworn through crocodile tears, that he'd come at her with a knife first.

It was utter bollocks, of course, and maybe, later, when his heart wasn't racing and the hair on the back of his neck wasn't standing on end – pain coursing through his body in a howling crescendo that started at the base of his skull and ended in his toes – he'd realised that Officer Friendly had picked up on that. The middle-aged man having spent far too fucking long trying to talk him down. But in that moment, that second, he'd been _volatile_. Cornered animal promising to defend itself through any means necessary.

They'd had to put him on the floor, either way.

It was Price who'd fished him out of a holding cell three days later; the old man's face a sight for sore eyes – one of which was quite literally throbbing like the fucking clappers. Griffin remembers being shaken; scared. _Brutalised_ , and so _angry_ because of it – his greatest flaw, being his faltering grip on his own emotions. He almost _bit_ the young officer who handed over the official notice for a court mandated appearance on their way out – all but _spat_ at the lady who'd returned his phone and wallet, from behind security glass.

 _Did_ have a go at the old man in the parking lot, over a reprimand – delivered far too gently, considering who his OC was – and got himself bailed up against a car for his troubles, the low growl that'd rumbled out of Price's throat, giving him a warning. Blue eyes hard and demanding compliance, however malicious.

' _Cool it, lad. Before you land your arse somewhere Mac and I can't dig you out of.'_

Griffin refuses to admit that he'd been cowed – the thought of being left to rot in a cage, quick to shut his trap. He'd grudgingly let Price press a hand to the good side of his face without jerking away, barely responding when it slipped down to squeeze his shoulder, after Griffin stubbornly avoided the old man's gaze. The silence had lasted all the way back to his OC's house. He'd been so fucking wiped by the time they'd rolled into the driveway, that he didn't have anything left to argue despite Price not having so much as _asked_ where he'd wanted to stay, rather than decided for him. Griffin had thought, at the time, that he'd lay low for a day, maybe two – long enough to sort himself out, before heading back to his home, his wife, and trying to pick up the shattered remains of their relationship.

Figures it never fucking went down like that.

Because from the second he woke up on Price's couch – having crashed there shortly after making it through the front door – there was always someone there. Someone watching him. It was a struggle to wipe his own arse without an audience, let alone leave the building for any stretch of time. MacMillan was the worst offender; somehow able to predict the _exact_ moment he'd start heading towards the phone, or the car keys. Bastard was usually nowhere to be seen, until the very instant Griffin was about to give into his inner demons – appearing out of thin air with that kind smile. The one that said _friend_ , while the man's analytical mind was busy forging a plan of delicate manipulation.

Price wasn't far behind, in that regard; their proximity allowing his OC to dog his every step. Keeping him from making the same mistakes, though with far less tact.

It hadn't taken long for Griffin to pick up on the micromanagement after their first few weeks coexisting together; his blunt nature driving him to ask the burning question after yet another thwarted attempt to get in touch with his wife against his lawyer's advice. ' _Why the fuck do you keeping butting into my shit, eh?_ '

'… _There's a saying, that you can't help someone until they want to help themselves,_ ' Price had said after several long moments, pausing partway through peeling a potato the size of Griffin's fist – sharp kitchen blade slicing away the skin, which was hanging off in neat curls. Price had always liked knifework, in and out of the field. '… _Doesn't mean you should stand there and let some poor sod drown himself out of his own stupidity, does it_?'

Now, as he stands in the old man's study which, not so long ago, had doubled as his own room, Griffin briefly closes his eyes; letting the memory steep over him. It still tastes bitter – that part of his life stinging like lemon juice in an open wound – but he's come to terms with the events. Come to accept them, regardless of how shit they can still make him feel.

In the quiet, a soft sigh escapes from his lips – Griffin running his fingers along the dusty shelves, lined with books he's not even sure Price has bothered reading. He hadn't meant to come in here – briefly ducking out of the lounge to take a piss when autopilot had kicked in. Soap will probably think he's done a runner because of the kid and while Griffin, for the most part, is alright with that – the thought of children never failing in making his bollocks crawl back into his stomach – he's never been one to bail on his mates, even when they deserved it.

Not that Soap deserves it.

Pulling his hand away from the bookcase, Griffin wipes it on his jeans – leaving behind grey smudges – and turns to head back into the fray. He'd been in his own little world, for a few minutes there; mind down the rabbit hole, completely and utterly _not_ expecting to suddenly come face to face with a very human-shaped silhouette.

 _Bloody hell_ , do his bones nearly jump out of his skin – body twitching, then tensing, in surprise.

'… Where the _fuck_ did you come from?'

It's sharp; a little ragged – Griffin having lost his figurative footing. Blindsided, and not quite sure how that happened.

Cassidy MacTavish gives him a _look_ that translates into the loudest nonverbal ' _idiot_ ' he's ever seen. 'When a man and a woman love each other very much-'

'Oh, sod off,' Griffin is quick to interrupt; perpetual scowl making an appearance. Like all things, he'd appreciated her sass – when it _wasn't_ directed at him. 'I meant why are you sneaking around like Johnny fucking English, brat? Have you never heard of knocking?'

There's a moment where she simply stares at him blankly – the reference flying over her head and crashing somewhere behind her, like Icarus and the sun. _Christ_ , does that make him feel old…

'I needed to ask you something,' Cassidy says after a beat, crossing her arms; chin jutting out stubbornly, as though to forewarn him that a refusal would end in a storm of teenage anger. In her defence, some wanker she hardly knew had just insulted her. 'I need… a favour.'

Griffin snorts in disbelief. 'A favour? You do realise that favours are meant to be returned? The fuck is a twelve year old going to do for me? Invite me to a bloody tea party with her dolls?'

'I'm sixteen…'

'No shit,' Griffin mutters; rolling his eyes, though even his annoyance can't mask the needling feeling of _guilt_. He's being a tosser. Running a hand over his face, he examines her for a few seconds, trying to figure out why miniature MacTavish is coming to him instead of bigger MacTavish. A quick glance at his watch tells him it's been all of ten minutes since he'd left. MacMillan had been ordering pizza; Soap had been offering the old man a blanket. Not exactly a recipe for disaster, last he checked. '… What exactly is it that you want, then?'

In a manner of seconds, the steely gaze drops. It's replaced quickly by a smile that coaxes out dimples; her severe face suddenly crumpling in a way that is almost offensively cute. Griffin knows in that instant, that he's had a lapse in judgement. That he's _fucked_.

'MacMillan – is that his name? He said you're picking up the food, yeah?'

'…If he said that, then it must be true,' there's a sarcastic edge in his tone; the fact that he'd been unknowingly volunteered as the glorified water boy, pinching a nerve. Not harshly, because Griffin understands the logistics – understands that in the current clusterfuck, he's dropped to the bottom of the priority list. It's generally where he likes to be.

Cassidy seems to completely ignore his irritation – her innocent, green eyes sighting up on his jugular and going for it. 'Can you take me with you?'

That catches his attention; knocking him out of his slightly resentful thoughts like a sledgehammer. 'What?' Trapped in a confined space with a teacup human? Griffin _knows_ that's a bloody nightmare waiting to happen, his voice heavy with suspicion. 'Why?'

'I have to get some… _things_ , from the shops, and you're heading that way, so…' Cassidy shrugs. 'It'll be easier if I come with you?'

'Pizza Hut isn't near any fucking shops, and the only extra shit they have is garlic bread and pasta boiled in a fucking toilet bowl.'

'Yeah, no,' Cassidy starts to gesture with her hands; like she's explaining something to a toddler. 'What I'm saying is, like, _before_ we go there, we drive ten minutes down the road and go to _Tesco_? First?'

Griffin is already shaking his head, because walking around a supermarket at the arse end of rush hour is just asking to strain the edges of his temper. 'No-'

'Please?'

To save himself the angst, he stares over the top of her vibrantly coloured head – refusing to look at the pout. 'Go ask Soap. I'm not a bloody babysitter.'

'But he's busy, and, like… _seriously_ freaked out. I think he needs to spend some time with his Obi Wan,' she bites her lip, anxious, her fingers tucking a few strands of stray hair behind her ear. 'I mean, I don't know how to help him. I kind of… caused it, with, you know…'

She's not wrong. Griffin isn't an idiot; he could see that Soap was – _is_ , really – a few straws away from breaking the camel's back. Poor fucker is lost. Not quite sure which way's up and which way's down. Whether Price could help sort that out, he didn't know, though he _could_ guess – what with the stubborn bastard's resolve to see things through.

Maybe giving his brother a chance to talk to their OC without distractions, was the best way forward? Griffin felt his expression sour.

Because that meant dealing with a pubescent pile of stunted growth.

'… Tell me what you need, and I'll get it while I'm out fucking around,' he finally says, trying to compromise. He can do a run to the store. It'll be a lot like wrapping himself in barbed wire and rolling across a football field, but he can survive it. 'You can… wait in here, or something…'

An unhappy noise. 'Well, I mean, I can… if you don't mind looking for some unmentionables. Because that's what I need, yeah? I wasn't really thinking about the whole going on the lam thing while jumping out my window. That kind of snuck up on me. But for reference – I don't like unicorns on my butt, and hot pink isn't my style-'

Oh, no. _Fuck no_.

Griffin raises his hand, grimacing, to silence her. This is not a conversation he's going to have, and, as resigned as he is, there's no other option. Because he sure as shit is _not_ about to go clothes shopping for a young woman.

He can hardly fucking go for himself.

'… You can come,' it's said through grit teeth. Soap is going to owe him. _So_ bloody hard. 'But if this is some half-arsed attempt to run off-'

' _Please_ ,' the laugh that bubbles out of Cassidy's mouth is borderline acerbic; the light that had been in her face suddenly gone. 'As if I have somewhere to run _to_.'

More than anything, those words sound like defeat.

In a painful flash; Griffin is back in his apartment, more than a year before his ex-wife had gone nuclear. Her nails had raked down his cheek, splitting his skin, and he's staring at his own front door, toying with the idea of walking through it. There's a beer in his hand – the fifth one of the night, and he's thinking about what he'll find on the other side. What would happen if he left, right now, and didn't come back.

 _Nothing_ , his mind had whispered traitorously, as he took another pull from his beer, still waiting for it to lessen the burn. _Except for that fact that you'll be alone._

He wonders, vaguely, if that's what the kid thinks, too.

'You'd be fucking surprised at the amount of people willing to listen, if you give them a chance, brat,' he says, stepping a little further back into the study, reaching into his old closet. He hasn't cleared all his shit out of here, yet, and there's still a few shirts; a few jackets. He picks a navy-blue windcheater out, and tosses it at her face. Her thin singlet won't do, in this weather. 'Your cousin, for one. The dozy sod loves a good sob story. Gets a real kick out of it.'

'… Yeah?' Cassidy gives the jacket in her grip – having snatched it out of the air before it could land – a once over; frowning. Her lip curls a little, derisive. 'Do you reckon he'd still want to listen after my fuck-up rips itself out of my vag like a scene out of _Alien_?'

Silence. Griffin feels his face seizure with mild disgust, but even though that was something he could have done _without_ , he still answers her. With more sincerity than he likes to admit. 'Of course he bloody would,' he offers a rare, half-smile. 'And whether it's a fuck-up… well that's a matter of perspective, isn't it?'

A soft sniff, and she bows her head, fumbling with the material in her hands. 'I guess…'

'You guess? Fucking please… I'm always right, haven't you heard?' Griffin lets his arrogance bleed back into his voice; his posture – trademark smirk creasing his face. 'Now, put that coat on before you end up like the old man, eh? And new rule – no talking about anything to do with your… female… bollocks, if your arse is riding with me. Got it?'

Cassidy slides one arm into a sleeve that completely dwarfs her and starts to fold it back at the wrist; briefly glancing up to give Griffin a tepid half-smile of her own. '… Got it.'

'Good.'

.

.

.

 **30 Minutes Earlier**

Knuckles rap against the lounge's sliding door; Cassidy poking her head inside.

The noise interrupts the conversation, saving her from having to rudely butt in. She's grateful for that – not quite as comfortable bossing around the two older men in the room as she is her own cousin.

'Johnny,' she says, once the rumbling about some fancy new drone technology tapers off – her cousin, who is standing beside the old man, like some guardian angel, glances over; quick to respond. 'Your friend is going to take me to the store. Is that okay?'

Behind her, she hears a slightly irritated; 'Wait… you haven't fucking asked him yet?' as Mark Griffin catches up, leaning around the frame.

In front of her, John – her John – frowns, hands on his hips. 'What the bloody hell did you do to him, to get him to agree to that shite?'

'I held him down and threatened his _lads_ ,' she answers back, with a sharp grin. The hand that drops down on her head, and the low growl that accompanies it, just makes her grin wider. '… Said I was really good at hitting small targets.'

'Muppet,' Johnny mutters – rubbing his neck, sounding long-suffering. 'Why do you always pick out the biggest arsehole in the room to poke, aye?'

'It's my charm and good fucking looks,' Griffin doesn't look all that offended, taking it on the chin. 'But she's right – I said I'd take her. I'm not paying for her, and you'll owe me a fucking beer…'

John gives him a searching glance – gaze flicking over to Price, who simply cocks an eyebrow at him, before returning to his brother. There's a moment of quiet; then he reaches into his back pocket, foisting out a handful of fivers.

'I know it wasn't your idea, mate,' Johnny says, apparently well aware of who initiated this little adventure, as he moves across the room and hands her the money. 'I'll shout next round at the pub.'

'Too bloody right, you will.' Griffin tells him, hand falling to the hood of Cassidy's jacket – looking more like a tent on her frame – and giving it a tug. 'Come on, then, while we're still young – Mac, what name did you put the food under, eh? Mine?'

'Aye, lad,' on the settee, with his cane leaning against his right leg, MacMillan nods – presence understated, as he lets the unit sort themselves out. It was a wasted exercise, wading into a battle when the issue was already under control. 'They said it was twenty minutes out.'

'Right – then that's all the time you've got, brat.' Griffin smirks, again, before quite literally walking away – leaving her behind. 'Better run for it.'

The last is said over his shoulder – Cassidy pausing for the briefest of moments while her mind catches up, before trotting after him.

'… Can I pick the music?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because the driver picks the music, and shotgun shuts their cakehole – that's how it fucking works.'

'But you're like, fifty years old. I don't want to listen to coconuts clapping together for twenty minutes – I have OCD.'

'What the fuck?' In the distance, the front door opens. 'Do I look like I have any grey hairs? Where the bloody hell did you get _fifty_ from?'

'The wrinkles, though if it wasn't for that, I'd say you'd be about _three_ -'

The front door closes, with a deft snap.

.

.

.

 **25 Minutes Earlier**

It's cheap, that all he can feel is relief as Griffin grudgingly leads Cassidy out of the room. Leaving him and the old man; quiet, as MacMillan slowly hauls himself back to his feet, grunting with the effort.

'I need to let the missus know I'll be late home, or I'll be sleeping with the sheep tonight,' the director offers a wink, before excusing himself with a few limping steps. 'Won't be but a minute, lads.'

The faux pas is about as subtle as bollocks on a bulldog, though Soap settles for gratitude that he's been given, fleetingly, some space. To collect himself – to process.

In a way, he knows that he's just fobbed off Cassidy; saddling his brother, in all but blood, with a right mess, and single-handedly dragging their commander and chief into a daytime episode of _Coronation Street_. But with the weight of… _everything_ – the complex, interconnected dominoes of failing, family relationships hanging over his head like an anvil, about to drop – bearing down on his shoulders, Soap needs a bloody minute. Just one.

And, as though a puppeteer has cut his strings, he takes that minute, and slumps down into the couch next to Price's own.

'You look like someone's kicked you in the arse, Soap,' like sandpaper rasping over wood; Price reaches out with an olive branch – keenly aware that his subordinate is losing a battle against raging waters.

Soap scrubs a hand down his face; barely containing a defeated sigh. Price isn't wrong. '… More than once today, aye? Though I'll be honest with you, old man – I think I prefer the imprint of your boot on my cheeks.' He laughs, a little sharply – closing his eyes against the reality, as though that might help. It was easy to play pretend when there was someone depending on you to be strong. A lot less so when one of the few men you could trust to help in any situation; was looking at you, willing to listen as you spilled your guts. 'Fuck me…'

The dichotomy in their unit is strong; underpinned by clashing personalities. The likes of which would have driven them apart, in any other organisation. Griffin would have jumped on his words; a dog with a bone. ' _You'd have to pay me, mate_.' But Price is a far better judge of where to put his foot, in certain situations, and it very rarely found its way to his mouth.

Ignoring the innuendo; Price sips his drink – rubs his throat with an open palm, thoughtful. '… Penny for your thoughts?'

Well… was that a question and a half. If Soap was to unload on the sharply pointed feelings swirling around in his gut – desperate to poke holes in the lining, leaving him writhing in pain – he's not sure that the old man has the energy to keep up. 'You might end up with a dollar's worth, asking me that shite.'

'Sounds like a bargain, eh?'

'Since when have you been bothered with bargains?'

'I've been dragged to more bloody flea markets than you'd know what to do with…' Price shakes his head; the memories clearly not on the highlight reel. 'My sister's what you'd call a ' _free spirit'_. Giving the sodding bint something with a clearance sticker is the happiest you'll make her.'

For a man that tended to hold his cards close to his chest, Soap had to admit… that was pretty funny. The thought of Price, dragged around an underground parking lot to look at the crusty, unwanted shite of other people, by a sibling, no less, enough to make his lips twitch. '… That's unfortunate.'

'One way of putting it,' Price gulps more liquid, before placing his empty glass on the small table beside him. 'Point is, all family's have secrets. Some more than others.'

'Aye, that's true,' Soap says; scratching his five o'clock shadow. Fidgeting, despite the offer of a sympathetic audience. 'Still, you might be better off sleeping than letting me piss in your ear, old man.'

An eyebrow cocks; Price's unblinking stare foggy, yet rather withering as it drills holes into his subordinate. 'That sounds more like cold feet than concern.'

Soap grimaces; feeling himself hunch a little defensively. 'Christ… do you have to make me sound like a wanker?'

'The truth hurts the most, I hear.'

'Alright, alright. I get it, old man. You can ceasefire,' throwing his hands up in the air to stop the onslaught of daggers burying in his skin, and _twisting,_ Soap gives in. Taking a deep breath, he parses through everything cluttering his mind; inadvertently landing on the one thing troubling him the most.

It takes a few moments of internal 'umming' and 'erring', before he's able to verbalise his thought.

'If a kid jumps into your car to avoid being brained by a cicada, is that still kidnapping?'

There's a beat; an owlish blink. Price furrows his brow, apparently unable to find the mocking tone in Soap's words. Had to be serious, then, but that didn't exactly make the mud any clearer. 'Context saves lives, Soap.'

As it turns out, getting started didn't make the follow-through any easier – Soap suddenly tongue-tied, now that it boiled down to questioning his aunt. '…I don't think I should even be bothering you with this bollocks.'

There's the sound of Price exhaling, winded, yet gently patient. 'A little family drama is hardly going to do me, son.'

'You bloody well say that now…' Soap's parents hadn't so much as taught him not to question authority figures, as they had never really given him a reason to. They'd been his biggest champions throughout his life – still were, even, and that, coupled with the military's expectation to fall into line, made this especially hard. His aunt was a mother, a parent. Someone who should be respected, and yet, Soap still can't get the image of his little cousin – the one who'd only ever come at him with hugs, and smiles, and a bottomless pit of love – trembling in the passenger's seat in the minutes after her jailbreak. Scared, not daring to let go of him until she was sure they weren't turning back. That… that's what finally unlocks his jaw; forces the traitorous words out of his mouth. 'Cass… she accused her Ma – that's my, uh… auntie – of, attacking her, I suppose. Over… well, Cass says it was because her Ma found out that Cass is…'

'Up the duff?'

'Aye,' Soap mutters, looking distinctly uncomfortable. There's a spot on the wall behind Price's television; a discoloured patch of unpainted plaster that he focuses on, because it's easier to talk to a that when he isn't sure he should be talking at all. 'That's about the size of it.'

'Hm.' It's not difficult to imagine what Price's take on teenage pregnancy is; his ideas typically falling on the more traditional side of the spectrum. An old breed, through and through. '… Seems like a right cock-up, all round, eh?'

'Yeah,' he deflates; crossing his arms, glancing back towards his OC, hoping the man had some kind of advice. 'I honestly don't know what to do about it, old man. There's a kid involved – I can't just walk.'

'No,' Price agrees, tapping his fingers on his chair. There's a frown on his face; eyes distant as he mulls things over. 'The kid – your cousin. Cassidy. Do you have any reason to think she might be… exaggerating?'

'I won't lie, that crossed my mind…' And he feels fucking guilty, because it's been drummed into him, time and again, that you must _always_ believe the victim. Or, if believing isn't a commitment you could make, _listen_. But never ignore; never refuse to try and hear their side of the story. 'But then her Ma tossed a planter at us. By rights it should have come through the windshield, it was that heavy, but I don't think she had the strength to throw it that hard. Lucky, aye? Because it would have fucked me up, though I can't say for sure, if she meant to hit the car, or the muppet. Christ knows.'

'I doubt the bastard would be willing to tell you, any time soon,' the joke earns a snort from Soap, cutting through his tension. Keeping the atmosphere light in hard times was a trick of the trade. 'Fact is, though, son, that if your aunt's gotten physical with your cousin over this, it's likely happened before-'

Price coughs; hard, sharp, into his fist, grimacing. '- and it's likely to happen again, eh? Kid needs to talk to someone. Not you, though – water?'

The request takes a second to register; Soap absorbing what Price has just said, heart thumping a little faster, heat creeping up his neck. He isn't sure he likes the implications, though he's definitely sure he doesn't like the idea of bowing out – convinced Cassidy would have a fit, if he dared do such a thing.

Climbing onto his feet, he collects the jug of water left on the coffee table and carries it over to Price. There's an unhappy look on his face as he starts refilling the man's cup. 'I don't-'

Price waves a hand, interrupting. It's only when he's washed the frog out of his throat, that he speaks; 'I meant, son, that she needs to make a report. Be there for her if you need to, but her mother's her mother. If this isn't raised to the right people, you'll be eaten for breakfast if your aunt comes for you.'

Under Soap's slightly strained gaze, Price shifts – angling to bring himself more upright, his breath tempered with wheezing. He presses a hand against his chest – attempts to clear his throat, but refuses to let Soap read too much into his movements.

'… I think it's best if you gave your Ma a call, Soap,' it's waspish, raspy – but still a good suggestion. 'Get the lay of the land, before we start making decisions.'

'I-'

'Best to do it while Griffin has his eye on her. That's not going to last.'

Soap straightens, but doesn't move; mouth opening to argue semantics, but quickly snapping shut as Price projects a look that brooks no argument.

'Go on, lad – I'm not going anywhere.'

Settling the jug next to the old man, Soap shakes his head at him. 'You don't make it bloody easy…' Already patting himself down in search of a phone, he starts to turn. '… I'll be in the hall. If you need anything, just… make some noise, aye? You're good at that.'

The remark is a little on the nose, but Price says nothing; watching Soap take quick steps out of the room, as though rushing might make the situation more agreeable. As soon as he's gone, the hand he'd been holding to his chest falls back into his lap – leaving behind a smear of red.

.

.

.

 **Present**

It's like someone has sat on his chest.

Price had felt it coming – the tightness gradually getting worse; his ribcage feeling as though it was shrinking. He'd have waved the white flag earlier, but it'd seemed simpler to wait it out – letting whichever poor sod drew the short straw tomorrow take him in, to be poked and prodded. He hadn't thought this would get the best of him; hadn't thought there'd be any real danger.

He was wrong.

Shooting pains are starting to arc up his torso; stabbing deeper with each cough. Before, when he'd hacked into his fist, it had the temporary effect of relieving some of the pressure – letting him breathe a little easier. But now – now, there's an odd sensation. As though there's something filling up his lungs, taking away precious space for the air he needs.

More than once, Price has experienced _drowning_. The traditional kind, where waves had crashed over the top of him as he bobbed helplessly in raging seas, driving him under the water time and again – chipping away at his resolve. Trying to stop his arms from lashing out and clawing his way back to the surface with a vicious need to survive.

And the not-so-traditional kind, where masked men with cruel voices had held him down, cloth over his face – periodically pouring water over him for hours on end. _Water-boarding_. RTI, in '96. Again in '99. The real deal, in '03.

This… is a lot like that.

His body shakes and heaves; clear-headedness dissolving as he starts to gasp, trying to get oxygen. _Desperately_ trying – Price pushing himself completely upright, hands pressing against his knees as he braces himself. But it doesn't work; lips slowly starting to bleed blue, and he barks another cough, spots of red dripping onto the back of his hands – soaking into his pants. The tang of copper and salt is on his tongue; his vision starting to speckle with spots of black.

'… _Soap_.'

.

.

.

In the privacy of the hallway; his world steadily crumbling around him, Soap hears the old man. Quiet, weak; the level of _urgency_ in Price's voice as he calls for help leaving a pit in his stomach.

'Ma,' he says, quickly, as he snaps around fast enough to give himself vertigo – cutting off a thickly accented reassurance that everything was going to be alright. '…I have to call you back.'

'John-'

Soap can count on a fingerless hand, the times he has hung up on his mother. It's a milestone he's likely to regret, but he isn't thinking about that as he shoulders his way back to Price. The door rebounds off his bicep, his feet propelling him forwards fast enough that his momentum sends the door handle into the plasterboard of Price's living room wall.

A dent appears; white dust sprinkling onto the carpet.

It's not noticed.

'Shite, old man…'

Price is exactly where he'd left him – the blanket Soap had dared to wrap him in still slung around his body, though it's now peppered with red. The same red sluggishly dribbling from the old man's lips, staining his blonde beard, painting his recliner, in gory spots.

Alarm.

Shock.

Fear.

Soap doesn't hear himself yell for MacMillan – doesn't register his own movements, as he launches across open space, hands clasping the old man's head, which is starting to hang – his one fateful rotation through A&E kicking in.

 _Stubborn bastard has been too busy trying to kill himself, and Soap has been too bloody distracted to notice._

Supporting his OC with one, bulky arm, Soap starts loosening his clothing – sharp gaze examining Price's mouth, trying to determine if there's an obstruction. He's quick to note that it's just blood – mucus, choking up the old man. With practised fingers, he swipes at the mess, clearing it as best he can.

'Don't panic, aye? Just breathe, Price. Spit if you can. I know it's hard, but don't you bloody dare stop…'

.

.

.

'… _Emergency. Which Service?'_

* * *

 _A/N: And here is yet another chapter, beta'd by the lovely sassysatsuma._

 _As always, I'd like to extend a super special thank you to everyone who fav'd, followed and reviewed. Especially to urgentorange, Little Yellow Sunflower, Baffled Queen and DaHybridQueen. You guys are amazing :)._


	6. Chapter 6

**Everybody Falls  
** Chapter Six

* * *

Dancing with death is a common past time for men of their calibre; the reaper more of an old friend than a threat. Ever present and lingering on the edges amidst flying bullets and ear shattering explosions. Blood that sprayed in plumes; slopped onto the floor in sluggish puddles.

To fear the final chapter was to fear the story itself; every page, every word scratched through blood, sweat and tears, eclipsed by nauseating terror. MacMillan himself had stumbled, every now and again, when it came to letting that darkness in. The first time being the day his eldest son was born, so early the he'd ended up in the NICU covered in tubes and wires. Stuck in Saudi Arabia, the climax of Operation Desert Shield thick and fast around him, he hadn't been able to get home. Hadn't been able to do anything but listen to his distraught wife over a crackling satellite phone.

Joseph MacMillan had been born six weeks early; and he'd died six days later. His father only ever laying eyes on him through a grainy photograph; only ever meeting him at a newly cut tombstone, peppered in flowers and wreaths.

When his second son came into the world years later, MacMillan was struck by a new, world crushing anxiety – whole body running several degrees higher than normal, sharp mind lost in a sea of thoughts that couldn't find their way to the finish. That time, he'd been knee deep in Sierra Leonne. Margaret had gone into labour hours after he'd returned from a stinking bog, full of as much mud as it was bodies. The twelve hours it took for James MacMillan to arrive were the longest of his life.

But arrive his little lad did, and this time, death wisped on by without a second glance. Leaving the MacMillan family be; emotionally exhausted, relieved, and happy with their tiny plus one, who gurgled and blew bubbles. As quiet and calm as his father.

Fear of the inevitable, he'd found, had always been about others. Always about the people he couldn't bear to lose, rather than himself. For over a decade he'd played cloak and dagger, robbing mothers and fathers of their sons, daughters. One shot that often took days of planning; hours of waiting. Steadying breaths and emotions locked behind steel doors; each target delivered to death quickly, each successful mission underpinned by a promise that they'd meet again. Maybe once, maybe twice. Maybe more times than either dared to count, but always with the understanding that eventually, one day, it would be his turn.

That was the deal. Part in parcel of the contract he'd signed.

And yet, when it came to the men beside him, the people waiting back home for him – that had never been something he'd agreed to. Their lives more important than his own.

Price's life; the stubborn bugger blurring the lines of family, and friend.

The second MacTavish had yelled his name; voice thick with the same urgency, panic, that he'd expect to hear on the battlefield when a soldier roared for a medic – he'd _known._ 999 already punched in as he limped back towards the two men, as fast as he could physically move after the helicopter in Pripyat had crushed both his leg and his active duty career – his gut suddenly a bottomless pit, his unshakeable calm more than shaken. There'd been a tremble to his fingertips; a lump in his throat, when his eyes had fallen on Price. The man with blue-tinged lips and veins sticking out on his forehead.

It's mundane. A casual week on home soil; a common cold. Price has danced with death himself; personal choreography surpassing MacMillan's own, and that's why, MacMillan thinks – that's why he'd forgotten that even _Price_ can stumble.

'… _Emergency, which service?'_

.

.

.

'… Look-' a pair of dark eyes flick to her left breast, where a nametag is pinned on her scrubs. '- _McCoy_. The only reason I came in was to get my bloody head stitched. If you can't do it, then fucking go and find me a _real doctor_ who can.'

Not for the first time, Lara McCoy bites her tongue as she applies pressure to the gash on the man's head – gauze soaking up the last of the blood still oozing sluggishly from the wound. The nurse who'd dropped him on her – with a look that'd been rather pitying – had introduced him as Simon Riley. A soldier, or so his medical file said. Lara had to admit that she'd _ached_ , if only a little, when her cursory glance at the paperwork he'd come with, caught the black blocks of redacted text.

Considering their proximity to Credenhill, she'd pegged him as special forces. SSR, UKSF – maybe even the 22nd Regiment. _SAS_.

What she would give, to get a foot in the door there.

 _An ambition that could never be realised._

Snapping on her latex gloves, Lara had been quick to start her preliminary checks – stopping the bleeding while asking him to track her finger. Shining a light in his eyes. Frowning, when he'd growled something along the lines of ' _some wanker hit me with a fucking brick. Cheap bastard_ ' when she'd asked, kindly, why he was making a right mess in her infirmary.

Coincidentally, about five minutes after that rather alarming truth, Lara McCoy had felt rather like hitting him with a brick, too.

 _Damn Hippocratic Oaths._

'I understand your frustration, Simon, but I can't start stitching until we've stopped the bleeding,' Lara tries to smile reassuringly; right in the face of his irritated scowl. 'Head wounds tend to bleed a lot-'

'…It's _Riley_.'

The flare of annoyance over his interruption mellows into confusion – her gaze briefly flicking away from his injury to look him in the eye. 'Sorry?'

'Call me Riley,' there's no 'please'; no request, just a rather sharp order. 'Don't tell me you're deaf, as well as dumb, McCoy.'

Someone else might have pressed a little harder, then – reminding him why it was best not to piss off the doctor charged with their wellbeing. Or medic, _technically_ – Lara currently halfway through a refresher course while awaiting active service. But she wasn't one of those people – the thought of inflicting pain for some sense of satisfaction, turning her stomach. She had a duty of care, after all.

'I can hear just fine,' Lara tells him, replacing the dirty gauze she was holding with a clean wad. The second she'd ceased contact, Riley had moved – turning to track her movements. Untrusting. She places the new dressing against his injury, gently repositioning his head with fingers cupping his jaw. The rough stubble they find there scratches against her skin, and she swallows. It figured that her grumpy patient had to look like a man who could have charmed her out of her underwear, if he hadn't been a right _tosser_. '… Though I am a bit concerned about your hearing, _Riley_. I did tell you not to move.'

Lara had never been one to take things lying down, her smile almost innocent as the man, sitting on a gurney as she treated him, rolled his eyes.

'Must have gotten lost in all the other twaddle coming out of your mouth.'

She can't quite contain the snort. ' _Twaddle_?'

' _Shit_ ,' Riley clarifies, just short of a growl. He huffs an agitated sigh, glare still going strong. 'Are you almost fucking done?'

Restraining herself from rolling her eyes right back at him – because hell, wanker or not, he was probably hurting - she takes another glance at the tear in his skin. It's still dribbling, but all things considered, she's sewn up worse over her time in the military. 'We're nearly there, I think. Just another minute and I can give you the local anaesthetic-'

There's a dismissive grunt. 'Don't need it.'

'Someone's brave...' Lara shakes her head, using her free hand to rummage through the medical cart she'd brought in with her. 'I had a corporal tell me the same thing in Iraq. Shrapnel opened up his calf, but it didn't nick anything important. He swore until he was blue in the face that he could take a tiny little prick.'

A clatter as she moves a few packaged syringes aside – the vial of lidocaine she'd been searching for rolling free. Her work station was organised chaos. 'Of course, the second I stuck him – well. Poor thing started crying for his mum.'

'Luckily for me,' his tone is abrasive, like the rest of him, though it lacks any real emotion. 'My cunt of a mother has been dead for over a decade.'

The apology that erupts from her lips is almost second nature – mild horror filtering into her expression as she realises she may have unintentionally hit below the belt. 'I'm sorry-'

'Don't be,' Riley says, with a little more force than necessary. 'I don't fucking miss her.'

'Oh...' Lara bites the inside of her cheek in the tense silence that follows, not quite sure what to say. Dysfunctional families were real – that she knew, but she'd never had the misfortune of experiencing it. Her own family weren't without their faults, but they all loved each other unconditionally. Got frustrated with each other? Yes. Angry? Every once in a while. But to not give a shit if one of them died? Lara can't imagine it.

Doesn't want to.

To distract herself, she instead focuses on the job – trying to get it done. 'Si – sorry **,** Riley. Can you apply pressure for a moment?' Before he can respond, she's already collecting one of his hands and tugging it up to the gauze – aware that if she actually waits on him, he'll probably refuse. 'I need to draw up the syringe.'

Oddly enough, Riley does as he's told – though not without bite. 'I already said-'

'I know what you said,' she's quick; ripping open a new needle and prepping the drug. 'Look – normally I'd do my best to glue facial cuts back together, but yours isn't clean. The edges are jagged, and it's deep enough to be a nylon job – not dissolvable. It _will_ hurt and I really am sorry...' Lara winces; the apologies now coming far too fast – ground gained turning into ground lost. '… But I _won't_ inflict pain on a patient. So, could you... _please_ , just... do this for me?'

It seems stupid, asking the man who's shown little more than contempt, to work with her, let alone do something _for_ her, and Lara is internally kicking herself; momentarily freezing. Like a deer caught in headlights, she glances away from the syringe; the numbing gel, in her hands, to no doubt see the beginnings of a predatory smirk on his face.

Except there isn't one; the look Riley is giving her long, hard – searching for something, with an intensity that makes her stomach flip-flop. Lara's not entirely certain he finds what he's looking for, but a beat later – he shrugs. Dark gaze snapping away.

'… Fucking make it quick, then.'

Relief washes over her, and Lara sighs quietly – briefly steeling herself before stepping forward. She guides Riley's hand away with a gentle tap, leaning in close to judge the best angle for her to approach administering the anaesthetic. It was always tricky – working with the face. Mostly because there wasn't much to really work with, at all, when it came to injecting.

'Alright,' she says after a beat, finding her sweet spot. 'Try not to move.'

Riley huffs a sardonic laugh. 'No shit, Sherlock.'

Lara pays him little mind as she applies the numbing gel with a cotton bud – politely ignoring the slight shudder than runs down his body as she swipes across his skin. The gooey line she's painting sits parallel his wound, which is dashed across the left side of his forehead and into his scalp, and she makes absolutely sure there's no raw cuts on her canvas for it to get into – quietly counting under her breath for a solid minute and a half before slowly, carefully inserting the needle.

It's quick; Lara in and out before Riley can really set his teeth on edge, and there's a flash of confusion in his expression as she pulls away. _Is that it?_

"That should start working in about five minutes. Maybe less.' Lara says with mock seriousness, as she discards the pointed syringe into a sharps container. '...It depends on how thick your skull is.'

This time, the rumble of laughter seems a little less acerbic. 'Bint.'

'Is that supposed to be an insult?'

'You can't tell me you're a soldier?' It's a clarifying question, and Riley waits for her nod before continuing – grin sharp. 'And you have never heard of that one, eh? I'd _expect_ it'd come part in parcel with your tits, really.'

'A lot of things come part in parcel with my tits,' Lara says, shrugging him off with the ease of someone far too used to that kind of bollocks. It was still a man's world, in the military, and she'd learned to survive it with a tough enough exterior. 'But when it's someone else trying to tell me about it, I try not to pay attention. It's usually irrelevant, anyway.'

' _Ouch_.'

'Don't tell me you're complaining already,' Lara starts pulling out supplies to clean the wound; carefully examining surgical suture needles. 'We haven't even started yet.'

Riley starts to cock an eyebrow, but quickly regrets it – returning the gauze to his face. The anaesthetic hadn't yet kicked in. '… I figured there was something different about you.'

That catches her attention. She's far too busy threading her suture needle of choice to turn in his direction, though tucking a tiny thread through a tiny loop does little to stop her curiosity. 'Is that right?'

'Most of the doctors here scuttle around me like bloody mice, when I come in,' Riley rolls his shoulders; feigning apathy. Or Lara assumes it's feigned, because she doubts it would have bothered him enough to mention otherwise. 'But war has a habit of stopping people from pussy-footing around, doesn't it?'

Lara can't really say if that's true – her own experiences both validating, and contradicting the idea. Some days, she could be David against Goliath. Others, she would rather hide under her blankets than face somebody when she knew there was going to be conflict. It was all a matter of perspective.

And none of that perspective answered her own burning question, which tumbles out of her mouth from a place of concern. 'You come here that often?'

'Often enough,' Riley doesn't seem to register that as a problem, though he seems to read the crease in her brow when she does face him – immediately throwing sleight of hand into the mix, in an effort to derail her. 'I'd tell you more, McCoy. But it's your turn.'

'My turn?'

'To bore me with your life story, yeah?' Riley smirks in a way that unsettles the butterflies in her gut, but also sets off the _caution_ alarms in her head. Bad boys had always been a weakness of hers, though her last had been before her ex-fiancé. Or maybe not, considering that her ex was a womanising _prick_. That betrayal still cut a little deep. 'So… why the fuck did you think it was a good idea to die for Queen and Country?'

'I don't-' Lara frowns; sentence ending abruptly. The question is out of left field, but, in all honesty, that's not what's bothered her. No, it's the nature of the question that's sent her thoughts spiralling, because for her specifically, the decision to enlist had been a deeply personal choice. One that had caused its fair share of regrets, as much as it had given her memories that she wouldn't dare trade for the world. 'I guess – hold still again?'

Brandishing her weapons, she hovers above him – height making her loom, giving his gash a quick clean before starting to knit a neat line of stitches. 'I guess it was because my father was in the military… and I used to love the stories he would tell…'

She'd also loved the fact that her dad would actually _talk_ to her, in those moments, because most of the time, he'd struggled to find common ground with her at all despite how _similar_ they both were. She'd always been determined to follow in his footsteps, when he'd seemed determined for her to do anything but.

'I see…' Riley is stiff for a few beats; like a person lying in a dentist chair, waiting to see if the drill cracking into their tooth was about to hit them with the kind of nerve pain that could make a grown man shudder; make his hair stand on end. When nothing comes, his lip curls – a little derisively. '…Trying to make daddy proud, were we?'

It stings – the words. Far too close to home. A voice in the back of her mind laughs, calling her an idiot. _What did you expect_? She had, quite literally, just handed him a loaded gun.

'Tried,' Lara says, flatly, as she continues to tease his skin back together – hand steady, despite a coiling anger. 'He passed without telling me what he thought about it.'

Riley can't necessarily look up at her, but her tone must have indicated _something_ , because he falls quiet after a seemingly uncharacteristic; 'Bugger.'

Bugger, indeed.

She's tying off the last suture; stepping back to survey her work, when he speaks again – now able to catch her eye, half-smirk still twisting his mouth. 'You know, you didn't answer my question, McCoy.'

'I did.' Lara tells him, near about done. Tugging off her gloves, she puts on a fresh pair and collects a non-stick bandage; deciding it was high time to finish him up and pass him off to someone else.

'No, you only told me what made you join. Not what made you stay,' Riley tilts his head to the side, still smirking, yet stilling without a prompt when she smooths the patch over his stitches – the ones that hadn't bitten into his hairline. 'Your dad's gone, so why the fuck are you here?'

It's never really something she's thought about – her path already set, the day she'd gotten the call. Her father may have driven her to enlist, but once Lara was there, in the thick of it – the _thrill_ had been like a drug. She'd taken lives, and saved them – pulling brothers back from the brink of brutal, bloody death leaving a mark on her. A mark that managed to make all the other scars, left by the few times she simply hadn't been able to do enough… _worth it_.

If someone like her didn't do it, who would?

'I-'

A knock on the door saves her from answering.

Poking her head into the room is the same nurse that had tossed Lara in the deep-end earlier – the woman offering her a wary smile, framed by auburn bangs. 'Sorry to interrupt, Dr. McCoy – but we have a suspected PE patient in transit to the ER. You're the senior attending – we need you on the floor.'

Without so much as batting an eyelid, Lara nods – immediately angling to exit, battlefield triage driving her forward. A PE was dangerous; and Riley had already had his booboo kissed. 'Of course,' she's about to brush past her temporary colleague, when she sees the nurse shifting as though to leave. _Oh no, you don't_. 'Sorry, Cathy – but can you please stay and keep an eye on my patient? He might have concussion, and he'll need to stay under observation for a couple of hours.'

Cathy stares at her, mouth slightly open. 'I suppose-'

'Oi, what the fuck do you mean _observation_ -'

Lara's grin is so utterly polite – completely masking the overwhelming sense of karma. She hadn't appreciated being dropped in the shit earlier, without so much as a warning. 'Thank you, Cathy.'

Pushing out into the hall, she winks; daring to glance back at the sour expression darkening the room only once. 'Oh, and he prefers _Riley_.'

Ten seconds later, she's gone.

.

.

.

The night flashes blue, then red, then blue again – painting hued caricatures on the street; the rhythm of the lights oddly hypnotic.

Soap is losing himself in them – the rapid-fire tempo overwhelming. He's standing on the pavement. Bare foot, with toes curling against the cold. Breath misting in the air. There's goose bumps rising on his skin and a shiver running down his spine, yet he can't feel it. Not because he's gone numb, but because he's… not there.

Of course, he is _physically_ there; his 6'2" frame rather hard to miss in the hustle and bustle flitting around him. Quick, blurred – like buildings, stations, on the tube. But despite his presence, Soap isn't _mentally_ in the same place – isn't feeling anything beyond a slow, building panic.

The EMTs are crowding the stretcher. Periodically blocking the old man from view in a horribly choreographed dance that sets his teeth on edge. They've got him sitting upright; a nasal cannula looped around his face, forcing oxygen into struggling lungs. They'd tried a mask, but Price had rejected it _violently_ for a man on the road to asphyxiation – confusion, fear, making him lash out at what Soap can only assume was a past memory. Blood is still leeching from the corners of Price's mouth as they start to wheel his stretcher towards a waiting ambulance, loading him in with minimal turbulence.

 _Guilt._

It's strong; suffocating. Because he'd been the one to find Price. The one to pull him out of the shower. The one that _knew_ something was inherently wrong, but had deferred to his Captain. Had trusted that he knew better.

When the paramedics had first arrived; gently shouldering him out of the way, their combined experience making them forgo the stock standard questions in favour of trying to wrangle the old man onto a CPAP machine, Soap had wanted to fuck right off and hide. Convinced they were there to fix his cock up – his mind imagining judgement that wasn't there. By the time they'd managed to coax Price into letting them stick the two short prongs of the cannula up his nose, Soap had silently worked himself into enough of a state that he'd almost flinched when the female EMT had turned to him – easy tone doing nothing to stop him feeling like she was starting in on a grilling as she prompted him for information.

'… _Can you tell me how long he's had an issue breathing? Do you know when this particular attack started?'_

The look she'd given him was nothing but kind. Soap had begun to answer; words halting, brain scrambling. Of course he knew and he hadn't been about to try and protect his own arse by fudging truth even if it made him look like a right wanker, but _shite_ , it'd taken work to get the explanation out – verbalising the fact that Price had been ill for hours prior, twisting a knife.

Halfway through, a hand had come down on his shoulder; squeezing, MacMillan having sidled up to stand at his back in solidarity. Where Soap faltered, the director picked up the slack; cool and collected, accented voice warm as honey. _Unfazed_. His knowledge of Price far superior as the line of questioning delved into medical history, family history.

None of that had stopped Soap from feeling responsible – even now, out on the street, where MacMillan had joined him. Standing close enough that he can feel the heat of the director on his right, elbows brushing – Price's OC an ironclad support. The reassurance isn't particularly strong; the man a virtual unknown, but that doesn't stop the gratitude as Price is pushed out of sight. Into the ambulance.

One paramedic climbs into the back of vehicle; the other pulling away. It was an older bloke, with greying hair and a calm demeanour – his hand touching a black device on his chest. Soap realises he's radioing dispatch as an electronic buzz crackles in the air, and he subconsciously steps closer – feet padding against asphalt.

'… suspected pulmonary oedema, with moderate bleeding. Jane is starting him on nitro-glycerine and aspirin. The PE is likely a secondary symptom of an infection in the lungs. We advise the team be prepped for our arrival.'

' _You got it, Nick. McCoy is on deck tonight – she'll be waiting in emergency.'_

'Good to hear. We're ten minutes out.'

The comm. is shut off; Nick turning quickly, partway through closing the transport's double doors. He's looking for Soap and MacMillan; tone kind, gentle, as though he's privy to the storm of emotions tossing Soap, at least, around like a ragdoll; this night the equivalent of a hurricane. 'You hopping in, boys?'

There's a brief moment where Soap opens his mouth and nothing comes out; cat having stuck its claws into his tongue. He wants to, of course. Because Price is more than his Captain; is closer that some of his immediate family, and that was saying something, considering the MacTavish brood. Bigger than a colony of rabbits; nosier than a mutt thinking you had food. Christ, does he want to – _need_ to – but there's hesitation, because he has to think about-

A gentle elbow in his ribcage, disrupting his thoughts. MacMillan nudges him forward – quick smile flashing, an echo of roguish charm. 'Come on, lad – I'll need help getting in.'

 _Can't argue with that._

It's neither a question, or an order – just a fact. Without processing it too much, Soap moves to help the director into the ambulance – hauling himself in before reaching out and doing the same for MacMillan. He makes sure the older man's settled, quick to return his cane, before turning; checking on Price.

Price is grimacing – none too pleased with the female EMT sticking a needle in his arm, tight-lipped against the pain. There's sweat beading on his brow; strain on his features as his chest rises and falls with considerable effort. The whites of his eyes showing; more than usual.

Soap doesn't notice that the doors have closed, and the van is moving, by the time he sits next to Price. Not daring to utter a word, he rests his hand on the old man's wrist – the one not commandeered by Jane, who's handing a clear bag of fluids on a portable IV stand – and squeezes.

It's something he'd do to comfort his own father, in this situation.

Price doesn't seem to mind.

.

.

.

Regret weighs him down like a heavy lunch saturated in fat; every fibre of his being wanting to collapse in a bed and switch the fuck off – tuning out the world for a solid eight hours.

If only he was so bloody lucky.

The second they'd gotten outside, Cassidy had bounded down the porch steps like a deer; drawn to his BMW by the sharp _click_ and blinking lights of it unlocking. She'd angled for the passenger seat as Griffin flicked through the keys on his chain, suddenly, blissfully, silent… until her beady little eyes had caught sight of his utterly _massacred_ driver side door.

'… Uuuuh, angry dude,' she'd said, executing a perfect one-eighty to peer at the long, loopy scratch marks debriding his vehicle of its shiny black paint. 'Did the hellhounds try to drag you back to ninth circle, or…?'

Griffin hadn't bothered looking up – focusing on his task, and, a minute later, plucking the bugger he needed out of the ten look-alike carbon copies in his palm. Not wanting to share the rather personal details of how, in one of many clear violations of the restraining order he'd taken out against her, his ex had yet again clawed her way out of Satan's arsehole to destroy his property – Griffin had carefully steered the kid from his path with a hand on her back.

'Get in,' he'd grunted, before promptly doing the same himself and shutting the door – the wall of metal cutting off her response. The pout he'd received had quickly morphed into a scowl as she'd circled the vehicle only to find her own door suddenly locked – Griffin's smirk from behind the glass _infuriating_ in the few seconds he'd let her sweat it out before relenting.

'You're a dick,' she'd grumbled, unhappy, but not daring to slam anything as she'd finally plopped into her seat.

Griffin had waited for her seatbelt to be fastened; firing up the engine once she was secure. 'You're no peach yourself, brat.'

' _Of course_ I'm not a peach. I don't have any _fuzz_ ,' Cassidy huffed, glowering. 'Not like you, with that stupid shit on your face.'

Reflexively, Griffin had taken his hand off the gear stick to rub his stubble. 'Fuck off… it makes me ruggedly handsome.'

A disparaging snort rang through the cabin. ' _Please_. You look like a welcome mat.'

'Funny,' throwing them into reverse, Griffin put an arm around the back of her chair as he'd craned his neck to look out the rear window. 'I don't remember asking for your opinion.'

'Sometimes the universe doesn't give us what we ask for, it gives us what we need.'

On the street, guiding the trunk of his car around the sleek body of MacMillan's Audi, Griffin had shifted his gaze and, very briefly, frowned down at the top of Cassidy's head. '… You sure you're related to So – John? Because he can be a bastard, but he sure as fuck not so much of a cu-' His brain catches up with his mouth before it commits a sin, and he clears his throat with a grimace. 'Crabby… _tit_.'

Cassidy had glanced over at him, then – lips pursed; her feet idly poking at a couple of left over fast-food wrappers from several nights ago. ' _Sorry_ , I didn't realise that me, a sixteen-year-old _girl_ , had to act like a twenty-five year old _man_ to live up to my _family_ name.'

'Well,' Griffin had changed gears and hit the accelerator – unable to poke holes in her logic. '… Now you know, eh? Better start squeezing out that beard before your ancestors give you a kick in the arse.'

'I'll get right on that,' Cassidy had rolled her eyes so hard, Griffin was surprised they hadn't rolled right back into her skull. 'When I figure it out, I'll give you some _pointers_.'

Griffin had taken that in stride; giving a sardonic laugh. 'Cheers, brat.'

'Anytime.'

The silence that had followed was bliss, and, hoping that his tagalong had grumbled herself out, Griffin had reached for the radio – turning it on with limited success. The first channel he'd hit was talkback radio; the second in the middle of ads. Mildly annoyed, he'd started arbitrarily flicking through stations, looking for something decent.

They'd been halfway through _Billy Jean_ when she'd spoken again – disgust radiating from her voice.

'You know, you're car is _gross_ ,' the crinkling of a paper bag had underpinned her words, and he'd known without looking that she'd lost her battle to ignore the KFC rubbish on the floor in front of her. 'Don't you know that the hormones in this cluck-cluck can give you a third nipple?'

As Michael Jackson's dulcet tones faded to black over his speakers, Griffin had blinked once, twice – instinctively searching for the teasing note in her tone that would suggest she wasn't fucking nuts. With his attention shifted, he'd completely missed a gap in traffic that would have allowed him to pull out on the intersection – the driver behind him beeping in anger. Griffin absently flipped them the bird.

'You're… screwing with me, yeah?'

Cassidy waited for a beat, side-eyeing him hard. '… _Obviously_.'

'Bloody hell…'

Under normal circumstances, Griffin would have screeched out onto the road with smoking tires; fitting himself into the next too-small space in the seemingly endless line of cars. But he hadn't just been responsible for himself right then – the headache next to him very much on his radar – so instead, he'd propped an elbow on the driver side window, rested his head against his hand and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel until, finally, the flow of oncoming cars eased.

A normal, five minute journey had turned into a quarter of an hour drive by the time he'd managed to park in the mall's parking lot. Griffin had snapped on the hand brake and ordered Cassidy out of the car quick smart, wanting this shit over with. He'd given her a deadline of another ten minutes, before they were hauling arse over to the pizza place. Cassidy had agreed – with a sarcastic ' _sure_ ' that hadn't really registered, as he'd locked up. He'd though they were on the same page.

That'd been optimistic. Or, _unrealistic_ , rather…

Now, standing in the women's underwear aisle of Tesco, confused gaze locked on a rack of granny panties that promised perfect shape sculpting, Griffin scowls, _impatiently_ , as the kid struggles to choose between a packet of striped blue-green underwear, and a packet of spotted white-black underwear. It's an easy bloody decision in his mind – pick up something that's going to cover your bits, and _go_ – but apparently, to his companion, it's the hardest choice in the fucking universe.

As he's waiting on a sixteen year old's epiphany, an old bat shuffles past him – or tries to – walker ramming into his toes; his shoes stopping it short. Griffin twitches – incredulously looking down at the wheels that had almost flattened his foot, then up at the leather boot glowering at him. _Suspiciously_.

He moves, mildly stunned – and she continues on her way.

Fucking _Tesco_.

'Brat,' he says, after a moment – patience wearing thin, now that his big toe is throbbing. It didn't help that it was obvious he didn't belong here, the glances being tossed his way – including the one from the Rambo old biddy – telling him that he was sticking out like a sore thumb. 'Fucking pick one already, before I leave you here. This shit is like watching paint dry…'

Cassidy frowns, brow furrowing in consternation. '… But I don't know which one I want.'

Was this regular female indecision, or just a teenager thing? Grumbling, Griffin crosses his arms – not entirely sure why what he was about to say needed to be said. 'Then take them both.'

'But I don't _need_ both.'

A huff. 'Then fucking _leave_ them.'

'But I need one,' Cassidy almost sounds upset; a lilt in her voice that makes Griffin pause, narrowing his eyes. She's biting her lip; the snark she'd burnt him with on the ride over missing. Little shit really was starting to look overwhelmed.

Scratching his head; Griffin gives her another minute, hoping she'd resolve this herself – and then grudgingly steps forward when she doesn't, hovering behind her. Peering over the top of her head. '… 'Fuck's the problem, then?'

'I can't…' Cassidy tilts her head back to look at him; green gaze Bambi-like, searching his face. '… figure out what to do.'

Griffin stares right back at her for a beat, getting the distinct impression that her struggle might be speaking to something a little deeper than making a call on spots, or stripes. Flicking his eyes away and back to the packaging in her hands – because he's not a fucking therapist – he tries to figure out the quickest way to sort this bollocks and get them both out of the store.

It comes to him as easily as cartwheels to a newborn, but eventually he has a strategy. A plan. An out.

'… Zebras, or Dalmatians?'

Granted, it wasn't a perfect tactic – Wallcroft and Price more the squad's strategists. Griffin was usually there to knock heads, when told, and Cassidy's reaction is a definite indication that he should stick to his day job. 'What?'

'Which one do you like better, eh?' The tab Soap will be paying to make this up to Griffin has already surpassed certain liver failure, and he's starting to consider making the bastard foot the bill for the hospital bed he's undoubtedly going to need.

'Uh…' Cassidy considers the question, expression becoming distant. The last time Griffin had thought about something that hard, it'd had a direct impact on his life. 'The dogs? I like dogs.'

Griffin swallows a laugh at his Soap's expense – ' _Dogs? I hate dogs.' –_ and reaches down, grabbing the packet with striped clothes and tossing it back on the shelf. 'Good. Spots it fucking is. Now let's go, before my bloody dinner gets cold.'

There's a moment where Cassidy computes what's just happened – rapidly glancing back and forth between the shelf and what's in her grip before seemingly deciding that Griffin's logic will do. She puts the pack in her shopping basket, ignoring Griffin's subtle urges to move her on and out of the aisle. 'I still need PJs, though. And socks. And while this jacket is cool, it kind of smells like Johnny after he's been to the gym, so, like… five more minutes? _Please_?'

A groan makes it past Griffin's lips; the ' _no_ ' stuck as a non-verbal growl in his brain. He could see where his night was going. 'For fuck's sake…'

.

.

.

Staff in hospital scrubs crowd the ambulance bay; organised despite the sheer amount of people in such a tight space.

MacMillan flattens himself against the side of the van as two ER nurses tug open the double doors, neither women giving him a second glance as they disengaged the power flex cot Price was sitting on from the fastener inside the ambulance. Together, they hauled the stretcher out; muscles straining at the combined weight of a burly SAS Captain atop a moveable bed.

In the brief few seconds where Price – with some colour back in his cheeks, despite the considerable effort it was still taking the stubborn lad to suck in a breath – was side-by-side with MacMillan's knees, he gives his old lieutenant a half-smile. It's all he's allowed to offer, between now and the hectic ride across Hereford. All he's allowed before the noise of motorised gears lowering the cot's wheels stop amidst the bustling medical professionals, and Price is suddenly wrenched from view.

After several long years of lying in tall grass together; in swamps, and bogs, and snow. For hours on end, sometimes unable to talk – one quick look is enough to convey the thoughts MacMillan is unable to voice.

' _You'll be fine, son.'_

Sliding along the bench, MacMillan starts to ease his legs out – lips twitching when a shadow passes him; MacTavish tapping down onto the ground in front of him and reaching out. Ever polite, the young lad waits for MacMillan to clasp his hand rather than commandeering his arm – as Price would, out of familiarity – before helping him down.

'Alright, sir?'

MacMillan finds his feet with a quick wink. 'Aye, lad – right as rain.'

The young private pulls away, but waits for MacMillan to start limping after their welcoming committee – speed vastly outmatched by quick-footed medical personnel – before following in Price's wake, matching MacMillan step for step. It's rather amusing – how starkly different John MacTavish is to John Price.

Begged more questions than it answered, though MacMillan let those lie as they arrived in the winding, white corridors of the hospital – chemical cleaning smell searing his nose. In front of them, another woman – this one with a white coat covering crumpled scrubs, and tall enough to catch everyone's eye at least once – had appeared to descend on Price. Bedside manner rather wanting as she snapped through checking his pulse, flashing a light in his eyes – questioning the lack of CPAP machine with a frown, and rather sternly cutting off Price as he tried to say something.

'… I'm sure what you have to tell me is quite prolific, sir, but please – concentrate on breathing, or I might have to do it for you. And trust me – that will be fun for neither of us.'

A hacking cough, and a choked grumble – Price shifts his neck a little to the side with some effort, letting her access the carotid artery more easily. What she finds there doesn't make her any happier, and she brings out her stethoscope – pressing it against his chest.

'Deep breath, please.'

Standing far enough out of the way – both men having dogged them to an examination room, and parked themselves outside the door – MacTavish is looking faintly impressed. '… She's got bollocks.'

MacMillan makes a thoughtful noise, having already placed her face. It was hard not to, what with the limited amount of female candidates that passed across his desk – his position as director of the special forces, giving him the privilege of partaking in the recruiting process across regiments. This particular candidate had been vying for paras – that, he knew, though he couldn't remember if they'd made a decision yet. Women were a contentious issue, even in that branch.

Pity, really. Because MacTavish was right – if you could withstand Price's glare without withering, you were already a step above the rest.

'Good judge of character,' MacMillan murmurs back – low enough for only MacTavish to hear, because his next words are more of a trade secret. 'Stubborn bugger's bark is usually worse than his bite.'

MacTavish heaves what could have been a chuckle, though manages to smother it. With a hand on Price's shoulder; the cold metal of her stethoscope shifting across the lad's flushed skin, Lara McCoy's starts to look a touch concerned.

'… and exhale again. Yes, like that – hm. If I didn't know better, sir, I'd say that your current predicament might have been caused by _pneumonia_ …'

MacMillan feels his eyebrows shoot up; feels MacTavish stiffen beside him, in no small amount of shock. So much for a bloody common cold – _shite_. Price had to have felt like the walking dead. How had his lad missed those red flags?

That's something they'd talk about later, MacMillan thinks – jaw setting rather determinedly. A glance to his left makes it clear that MacTavish is taking the news worse than he is – expression rather stricken. That… that was another conversation he and the private are going to need to have sooner than later; before the bastard drowned in guilt.

In the depths of the examination room, McCoy has turned away from Price and is looking at her assistant – tone authoritative. 'I want a chest x-ray and blood tests to confirm before I start hitting him with the heavy drugs. Prep the machine?'

The male nurse she's talking to nods before bustling out the door – squeezing by MacTavish and MacMillan; both immediately clearing a path. As they're shifting back, MacMillan finds himself meeting the gaze of McCoy who'd been watching her staff member – the medic almost doing the double take at the sight of him, clearly as aware of his face as he is of hers. There's a moment where her eyes widen; hands pausing in their fumble with a needle.

Then, without missing so much as a beat, she recovers – deftly ripping open plastic.

'Sir – _sirs_ ,' she corrects – catching sight of MacTavish. 'I'll need to take Mr. Price to a private room for the x-ray, but once we're finished there and we have notified his family, we'll let you know when you may see him again. Until then, if you could please take a seat in the waiting room…'

The fact that his position, which is rather well known, in this particular hospital – the board working closely with the military for rotations and treatments their on base facilities at Credenhill could not provide – grants him little more than a polite smile, brings a bout of respect. MacMillan inclines his head – gracious about his marching orders.

'Of course, love,' with one last look at his friend – Price looking back with half-lidded eyes, that gave nothing away – he backs up, catching MacTavish's elbow with his free hand. '… Let's go grab ourselves some coffee, aye, lad? We're going to be here a while.'

* * *

 _A/N: As always, I'd like to give a super special thank you to Little Yellow Sunflower, .Queen, SassySatsuma and all my lovely followers! Your are absolute delights and I really appreciate your feedback._

 _Also, as a note - one of the new character's in this chapter, Lara 'Bones' McCoy, is a character that belongs to SassySatsuma and was written in with her permission. I hope I have done her justice. And, following that... if you haven't read it before, I'd like to shamelessly direct you to her fanfic 'Caught In The System' which is a fucking amazing read. xx_

 _P.S: Griffin is totally available for hugs :P._


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